Fantasy in Desire
by Arianna083
Summary: Based on the 1990, Charles Dance version. Christine has been under the benevolent tutelage of a mysterious Maestro who remains as much a puzzle to her as their blossoming relationship. When circumstances begin to spiral out of control, truths will be revealed, friendships forged and love will always rise to conquer all. (E/C)
1. Chapter 1

**Notes:** Hello! This story has been on my mind for quite a while. It is based upon the 1990 version of Phantom, starring Charles Dance, Terri Polo, and Burt Lancaster. I will try and post new chapters regularly, I'm thinking this will turn out to be rather short but detailed (I hope!). It will not follow the 1990 version exactly, especially in regard to specific characters but I hope it will entertain nonetheless.

Rating may go up in later chapters.

The title, "Fantasy in Desire" is taken from the Mozart piece _Fantasy in D_ which sadly remained unfinished, but from what I've read was ground-breaking in its time. It inspired me as soon as I heard it years ago :)

I hope you enjoy, and please do leave a comment or review!

 **Disclaimer:** I don't own POTO, or the Phantom of the Opera 1990 release.

 **Fantasy in Desire**

 **By: Arianna**

" _Love is the only gold."_

~ Alfred Lord Tennyson

 **Chapter One**

* * *

Laughter echoed in the dark, carried on a myriad of chilly breezes that constantly rushed and ebbed throughout the bowels of the opera house. The winds seemed hushed this night, as though they too were in awe of such novel sounds; they whispered softly and allowed the laughter to fill the cavernous spaces that were their usual domain.

Yet, unable to abandon their master's side completely and drawn to his strange enigmatic presence tonight, they stretched out with cold fingers and played with the solitary flame that lit the table where he and his protégé were seated.

Christine's smile was radiant, her cheeks flushed and eyes bright in the aftermath of such joy; it was a joy to laugh with him, to hear his impossibly deep voice usually so controlled and measured give way to happy abandon.

She searched his face—yes, he looked happy—but more than that, she _felt_ it. A flush of pleasure warmed her cheeks and she continued her story as her Maestro leaned back in his chair and regarded her with bright, laughing eyes.

"How ever did you escape?" he asked, his musical voice the perfect match to his gentle gaze.

"Oh, it was quite simple," she said. "First, I gathered all the hay I could, and pushed it over the edge of the loft."

"Aah," he said, nodding with understanding as Christine beamed at him and they both began to laugh again. "Very clever."

His praise was like the purest sunshine, and warmed her from the tip of her head to her toes.

"Well, I certainly thought so at the time. After pushing what felt like every last straw of hay onto the barn floor, I'd made myself a decent enough place to land. So, I took a running jump and…" she spread her arms wide, as though in flight. His eyes widened, clearly riveted by her daring.

"But _that_ wasn't the best part," she said, bringing her arms back to lean onto the table. "The best part was when I landed in one piece, I heard a sound. A _clomp, clomp, clomp_ …and the voice of a very angry neighbor, demanding who was in his barn!"

Her Maestro studied her, clearly bemused beyond measure. "And _this_ was the best part? Were you not terrified he'd discover you, _and_ the hole you'd so expertly made in his roof?"

Christine smiled, and if her Papa had been there to see it he no doubt would have said _"Lord help us, she's wearing her little imp's grin!"_

"I _was_ terrified; but I have always found that as a child, the imminent threat of unpleasantness always inspires bold feats of resourcefulness. In my terror, I surmised that my only escape would be to borrow one of the farmer's powerful steeds, and make my escape like the knights of tales gone by; sword drawn, charging forth. Unfortunately, in this particular barn there were no steeds to be had, and I had to…improvise."

He couldn't contain his mirth. "With what? A particularly robust chicken?"

Christine shook her head, biting her lip with giggles. "A donkey."

He tilted his head back and gave a bark of laughter. "And did it come with a sword?"

"It barely came with a pulse, the poor dear thing! He looked older than dirt and recently ploughed, but he let me clamor my way atop his back without comment. I think he was probably still asleep, now I think on it!"

"How ever did you escape on an unconscious donkey?"

"Well, most working animals have a special word that only their master knows. A word that rallies them into immediate action. While climbing onto the poor beast's back, and hearing the farmer thundering closer and closer, I'm afraid I let slip one of the only blasphemies I'd ever heard my Papa use."

His eyes widened. " _You?_ Why Christine…I'm shocked!"

"So was the poor beast. I don't think he'd ever counted on being called back for duty, but when he heard that word he bolted out the stable door and straight into a very livid, very red-faced farmer! I remember thinking as we galloped away how the man must have regretted not cleaning out his stables more thoroughly, but I suppose the abundance of muck helped break his fall."

He clapped his hands together in delight. "I'm sure you made a sight that will haunt him for the rest of his days! Hair whipping behind you, battle cry upon your lips, mule at full charge!" he bowed his head and shook it, his shoulders shaking with mirth.

"Oh my dear…what a vision you have given me, and I'll treasure it always! What an adventurous child you were. It is very commendable."

Christine felt her cheeks flush, and she let her gaze drop back to her plate of as yet untouched pastry. "I think my Papa felt the same, although to this day I'm not sure whether they were tears of laughter or despair when I explained why I was late for supper, covered in muck and hay, atop an ancient and confused looking mule."

"How dearly I would love to have seen you in that moment."

Her gaze rose of its own will to meet his, for his voice held no trace of laughter now. It was soft, reverent, and something else that made her feel quite light-headed, although she had only indulged in one glass of red wine. Her stomach fluttered in a delicious sensation as a familiar tension began to build within her.

"Are you chilled?" his voice had returned to its smooth, gentle cadence, but she could still discern an undertone of something tremulous hidden beneath its glass veneer. His concern made her heart feel buoyant and weightless, as though the only thing anchoring it in her chest was the steady gaze of his pale eyes.

They were a particularly beautiful shade of stormy grey tonight, and she noted how the deep charcoal of his dining jacket and the soft blue of his cravat amplified their contrast against his pale skin. Straight, broad shoulders tapering into long, well-muscled arms and large, strong hands with equally long fingers. Always gloved, yet how she yearned to free them from their casing and press her lips to each fingertip…! _So reckless._ Her Papa had always been right about her.

"You're shivering…" he noted, and although all hint of their previous frivolity was gone from his demeanor, it was replaced by something equally, if not more stirring.

 _Fire…_

It was everywhere; a warm rush that began whenever his eyes met hers, trailing a heated course through her veins until her entire body felt dizzy and feverish.

No, she wasnotshivering from _cold_. She was _trembling_ with emotions she could no more control than the moon or stars.

"It is nothing…" she began with a shy smile, but as always he was too swift and light of foot. Within seconds he was at her side and carefully, tentatively, he placed his dinner jacket around her. Was it her imagination, or had she felt his fingers graze her bare shoulder? It was barely a touch, but it made her muscles react like a taut bow string—and without thinking, she reached for his gloved hand.

"Thank you," she breathed, her fingers resting lightly atop his. Her intuition more than her eyes told her the effect her touch had on him. It was a slight stiffening in his posture, as though the air around him and time itself was standing still in the moment any part of her made contact with his body.

"I'm afraid it does not become your dress," he said so softly she was reminded of the feather-light touch she knew she hadn't imagined upon her bare shoulder moments before.

"It's perfect," she smiled up at him, and his answering smile was so full of gratitude she couldn't resist bringing his hand to her lips and brushing them across his gloved fingers.

A sharp intake of breath; Christine felt his hand slide from hers, and suddenly he was back in his seat across the table from her, as though he had never left it.

"It is a pity the air has become so unfavorable this evening. Now that you have so kindly entertained me with your past adventures, I had hoped to take you for a moonlit stroll. I know of a beautiful glade, which is particularly situated for star-gazing."

Her hands wrapped themselves in his jacket, which was warm and smelled so much of him that she thought her heart might burst. His tone was gentle and attentive; he always spoke to her with fondness…but it was business-like once more. As though the art of wooing her was an undertaking of the utmost seriousness and he was bound and determined to do it by the book, without deviations.

A sudden thought occurred to her— _were_ they courting? She had no previous experience to draw upon, so she was completely reliant upon her own observations and gleanings from his behavior.

What he said, and what he left unsaid.

She knew what her heart felt; excitement, joy, and a fluttering whenever he gazed at her with those soulful eyes and intent expressions. And there was the fire—an intensity that left her breathless and feverish for a cure she was only beginning to understand. He was unlike any man—no, any _one_ she had ever encountered and although she knew most respectable pillars of society would be aghast and scandalized at her Maestro's...eccentricities, she found she did not mind them at all. She was not considered 'respectable' either, and she was certainly not a pillar of Paris society.

She was simply Christine, with no gold nor fine dresses or connections. She did not need such things. She had her childhood memories, and they were filled with laughter, love and above all, music.

And that was what they shared…what bonded their souls. Christine felt her cheeks begin to burn anew at her last thought: _Our souls are bound by music…and our bodies are the instruments. How can we deny the instrument, yet play the symphony with such passion?_

And she knew of his passion. She saw it, like a storm raging beneath the surface of his finely crafted manners and civility. Only when he was seated at his piano, or holding his violin did the storm breach the walls of propriety. Only through music had she felt his touch, bold and unhindered, demanding her surrender to _him,_ only ever him…

Sometimes, she even wondered if he was aware of his effect on her. He was always so composed, so buttoned-up and infuriatingly, frustratingly calm. Even after making him laugh so, he was able to smooth himself back into the picture of decorum. How could she ever peek inside his heart, if he was always guarding it, protecting it with his genteel control? And a wild, untamed part of her consciousness _wanted_ him to lose control. Just once, just long enough for her to find a crack his respectability and draw out the passionate man she knew resided within.

Christine gazed at him from across the table, wanting nothing more than to tell him everything that was burning in her to say. She was tired of rules and restrictions. Tired of expectations, definitions and the barest of touches. Tired of his eyes, his presence bringing her to the brink of ecstasy as he drew more and more passion from her body, her voice…

Only to have him slip away when she tried to give that passion a tangible existence. It was maddening. She didn't even know his name. Did he have a name? He must, and yet he had never given her any hint in their prior conversations of a life, a family before he came to be at the Opera.

 _When you sing, I live in heaven. When you don't...I live below._

Always avoidance, so flattering in its simplicity. She felt at times he were a magician, distracting her with his slight of phrase, drawing her curiosity away from himself with such pretty, sincere compliments. But all the pretty words in the world couldn't conceal the fact that after knowing him for all these months, the music lessons and conversations, she still didn't know where he lived, or how he had gained access to the underbelly of the Opera's catacombs.

How had he come to know the theatre so well?

The little alcove in which they now sat was the perfect place to have a candlelit dinner in anticipation of her debut in _Faust._ He had known she was far too nervous for a crowded restaurant, so he had created their own little world with a pretty little table and chairs, silver cutlery and a hot, delicious meal. An expensive meal she noted—pheasant soufflé and exotic vegetables. A beautiful tapestry hung on the wall beside them, covering the cold stone beneath and keeping away the chill.

He must have hung it there himself, and she had no doubt his efforts carried the same majestic effect as any private dining room did in those expensive restaurants she passed on the _Rue Scribe._ More so, seeing as he had made sure to add personal touches he knew would please her. She was touched beyond measure that he would have gone to such trouble for her.

He sat across from her now, so familiar and yet still a complete mystery; she knew he was as lonely and anchor-less as she was, so _why_ couldn't he trust her?

He waited patiently for her, as though he knew she was in the middle of some deep internal debate; he always knew. He could read her better than anyone she'd ever known besides her parents, which still frightened her a little.

Tilting his head to one side quizzically, he chuckled.

" _Little bird, little bird, come back to me…"_ he sang gently his warm, rich voice full of affection.

As it always did, his voice acted like a steady hand guiding her back to wherever it willed—back to him.

"Forgive me," she said with a smile, unconsciously pulling his jacket more tightly around her shoulders. "The supper was so delicious, I find myself lost in a daydream. A stroll sounds lovely. I'm sure I'll be warm enough. I have a dashing knight's kind favour to protect me after all."

She couldn't help the mirth that escaped her as he practically preened in delight at her praise. The palpable tension she'd felt between them momentarily faded into the background, like an empty set on a grand stage, waiting for the players to resume the performance.

Taking them back to the playful mood of their earlier conversation he gracefully rose from his seat and with one step of his long legs was at her side once more, kneeling in all reverence at her feet.

"Sweet lady," he intoned with his head bowed, one arm crossed over his heart in an impassioned salute, "wouldst thou bestow upon me the unparalleled pleasure of your enchanting presence, and favor me with a stroll this eve? I have no steed, nor donkey to offer; only my arm, and my utmost attention."

Burying her face in the folds of his jacket, Christine giggled in delight at his antics. Her embarrassment only seemed to amuse him further, and in one smooth motion he swept a hand behind his back. Christine watched in fascinated delight as with a flourish, he presented her with a beautiful long–stemmed rose, conjured seemingly out of thin air.

"If I had a flower every time I thought of you," he said earnestly, "I could walk through my garden forever…"

He watched her intently as she accepted the flower and brought it to her lips. It smelled glorious. Its petals felt velvety soft against her skin and she breathed deeply, closing her eyes and savouring its sweetness.

"Oh, Maestro…how beautiful," she sighed, touched beyond measure that he had remembered her favourite flower—and quoted her favorite poet. It had been one of their earliest conversations after a particularly intensive singing lesson, revolving and gliding through various topics they both treasured—art, literature, poetry and above all, music. Christine remembered the way she'd spoken so freely, without a thought to propriety or decorum. Waving her hands about enthusiastically, she'd talked of her homeland, her dreams and her family.

She'd told him of her father; of how he always used to read Tennyson's poems to her at night and how much she loved the sound of his voice. Fervently, she'd said that nothing save her Maestro's voice had ever comforted or soothed her that way before, nor since. He'd said nothing but reached out with one finger and stroked it from her temple down the length of her cheek, lingering just beneath her bottom lip…that deep, steady gaze so focused and intent. She remembered blushing fiercely with surprise and delight at his unexpected touch.

How badly she'd wanted to kiss him, then. How much she wanted to now, and with the thought of his lips on hers the plush petals of the rose suddenly felt intimate in a way that made her ache with longing. A kiss wouldn't be so wrong, would it?

Opening her eyes, she could not have prepared herself for what she saw.

He was staring at her—specifically, his gaze was transfixed on her mouth. His lips slightly parted, his chest rose and fell visibly, his entire body radiating the same raw desire she knew must be mirrored on her own face.

Licking his lips, he said in an unusually husky voice, "Beautiful, yes…yet I cannot help but envy it with every part of my being at the moment."

A thrill of excitement shot through her at his passionate admittance, and within the span of a few heartbeats she nearly tossed reason aside and launched herself into his arms. She would have done so had he not drawn back slightly, his expression suddenly grave and solemn.

"Please forgive me, my dear," he said quietly, and there was such profound sadness in his voice that Christine found herself once again reaching out to him instinctively. Grasping his shirt sleeve, she rose from her seat just as he rose from his knelt position, his jacket slipping off her shoulders. In the process, she unintentionally brought them so close that she felt the bare skin of her upper chest—the soft skin revealed beyond the top of her bodice—brush fully against his arm.

A sudden inhale of breath; and this time he wasn't quick enough to stop the moan that escaped him. The sound only fueled her desperation. She knew it. She _knew_ he'd felt it too! The fire, pulling them ever forwards toward each other.

"No…Maestro, there's nothing to forgive!" she said urgently, gripping his wrist and hoping with all her might that he didn't pull away. "Please…you never have to apologize for wanting to touch me…as I want to touch you."

The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them—and she wouldn't have held them back for anything. _This_ was who she was; passionate, unguarded and utterly improper. She was not ashamed of it…it was the truth. If only she could reach past the mask, that barrier that kept him the unattainable _Maestro_ to the man she quickly realized she was adoring more and more each day.

His eyes were fixed on where her hand grasped his wrist, and she felt the tension in his body like that of an animal poised for flight. He swallowed reflexively, and a stab of remorse coursed through her. He was so dignified…there was something tragic and heart-breaking seeing that control diminish and be stripped away.

Ashamed at her lack of compassion for his plight, Christine was about to release him and give him the distance he so obviously needed when he bent forward, bringing them even closer… and caught her hand, which still clutched the rose. His touch was feather-light, yet the contact sent such a torrent of shivers throughout her body that she nearly dropped it.

His hand encasing hers, he drew it towards his mouth and brushed the petals of the blood-red bloom against his own lips just as she had done. His eyes drifted shut, and a shudder ran through his body.

"I wanted so badly to prove to you…I could be good..." he said in a low, desperate tone she'd never before heard him use. He sounded as though he were in physical pain, and for a moment he squeezed his eyes shut as though he truly were suffering a physical hurt. "…that I could overcome this…selfishness, this weakness in my blood."

The rose was still against his lips, as though he spoke to it—as though it understood. "I do need to apologize, my dear. I have so many things I am sorry for…" his voice trailed away, and he swallowed thickly.

"Don't be sorry, Maestro…" she said softly, edging closer to him and gazing up into his masked face. "You _are_ good. Your heart, your mind…these hands," and she leaned forward, unaware of the way his eyes darkened as she pressed her lips to his fingers as she'd wanted to do from the moment they'd sat down together. Keeping them there, she spoke into his gloved hand as he had just done to the soft bloom. "These hands are my kingdom. They create worlds for me, worlds where there is no loneliness, no suffering… only music. I can _feel_ your music, and it is so beautiful!"

As the words poured out of her, straight from the depths of her soul, she realized he had gone completely still. Raising her head, she tilted her mouth towards his imploringly. The only clue that he had not turned to stone was the way she heard his breathing come fast and tremulous.

He was shaking, but so imperceptibly that he seemed frozen in place. Then, he was capturing both of her hands in his—but instead of granting her wish for more contact, he took a step back from her. Holding her hands briefly in the space between them, she realized it wasn't a gesture of affection—he was making sure she could not touch him again. Christine felt a sting of hurt cut through her like thin wire, deep and scarring.

 _What had she done wrong?_

"Ah, my dear one, how truly kind you are to say such things to me," he said, his voice unnaturally full of bravado as though they were rehearsing lines in a play. "And with such loveliness…yes, you leave me no choice but to be left overwhelmed with grateful admiration!"

"Maestro…?" she began questioningly, making to move toward him whether to apologize or try and kiss him again she didn't know. All she knew was that she couldn't stand the deep hurt that coiled within her heart at the thought that despite his earlier admission, he didn't want her near him. He squeezed her hands in his, halting her movement and keeping the invisible barrier firmly between them.

"Do you play games?" he suddenly asked, his voice light and full of quizzical interest. Christine stared at him wide eyed for a moment, her brain madly trying to catch up with his sudden detour off topic.

"I…I do not know," she managed, gazing at him in confusion. He seemed oblivious to her bewilderment. "Of course you do!" he smiled at her cajolingly. "You must have played many games as a child—why, I'm sure you did! You who had so many adventures…Yes, I have envisioned you so clearly; a wild little urchin with tangled golden hair flitting here, there, and everywhere in search of fairies and trolls! A nymph of nature, defeating rogues and pirates with a mere quirk of her inquisitive brow…"

His expression softened for a moment, and Christine thought she saw a flash of pain flicker and die upon his features. It came and went so quickly she barely caught it, and before she had time to question its appearance he was back to playing the part of jovial host, dragging her playfully behind him as he made his way from their make-believe dining room.

"W-where are we going?" Christine asked his retreating back, noting in spite of her confusion the way his broad shoulders cut straight elegant angles, his movements radiating a power he seemed unaware of. He was extremely tall and their differences in height became more acute than ever as he jogged ahead, tugging on her hand and pulling her along in his wake.

"It is a secret," he said merrily.

In spite of herself, Christine couldn't help but smile at his antics—he was striding with such purpose as he lead her back into the caves.

"Maestro?" she asked with the hint of a laugh as he spun about to face her, eyes dancing.

"Let me forgo the role of Maestro tonight, little nymph! Tonight, we shall play a game, just you and I. Would you play a game with me, Christine?"

Christine hesitated for a moment, then nodded. Relief rushed over her as she considered that perhaps she had no reason to feel hurt at all—perhaps this was an attempt at letting go of formality…perhaps it was just what was needed. Before she had time to muse any more on it, he had deftly reached around her head and plucked the butterfly hair-pin from her chignon, causing her curls to tumble across her shoulders.

With a mock cry of outraged modesty, Christine made a lunge to get it back—and found that his height was indeed a truly unfair advantage. Dangling it tantalizingly beyond her reach, he warded off her efforts with an ease that awoke within her that same little child who had refused to play _princess_ with the other village girls in favour of soldiers and pirates with the boys.

Her Maestro knew her well.

Giggling despite her undignified jumps to try and reach her pin, she was about to execute a non-lethal yet effective method of negotiation—namely stomping on his toes until he released her prize—when he twirled away from her nimbly, his laughter both a challenge and a dare. Christine didn't hesitate this time; gathering up her skirts she gave a little growling snort of defiance before dashing after his silhouette.

His laughter floated back to her in clear, rich notes and the sound only spurred her on as she continued to chase him through the increasingly darkened tunnel. Finally, after cursing inwardly at her cumbersome attire for the umpteenth time, she saw it—the stark white of his linen shirt just inches away. Reaching out, she expected to grasp his elbow or forearm. She expected him to turn about and admit defeat. She expected to hear his laughter soothe the sudden feeling that bloomed within her chest…the feeling that something, was not right.

Quicker than a heartbeat, his hands encased her upper arms and she was being gently but firmly pulled towards the wall. Alarm gripped her, but as he pulled her she heard the groan of gears and light poured through a crack that was steadily growing wider and wider.

A door.

And then he had released her and she was on the other side of it, her momentum causing her to stumble and trip on the thin, worn carpet of her room beneath the stage. Before she could muster up a cry of surprise, she heard gears grinding into place behind her, and the sound of the hidden door being locked shut.

Halting her stumbling progress against the wall of her familiar room, she pressed herself against it for a moment, breathing hard.

The sound of the lock echoed in her ears—she could not get back to him. Not tonight. Perhaps never. Cold panic, unlike any she had ever felt before gripped her. Turning, she knocked against the innocent wall where the hidden door had disappeared, and tried to keep the fear from her voice.

"Maestro? Are you there? I…I thought we were playing a game…you said we were just…please, I don't understand. Are you angry with me?"

She waited, hands pressed to the wood, staring at it imploringly as though she could see through it to where he stood. Just when she began to think that he had indeed abandoned her he spoke, and his voice was so near she knew he must be as close to the wall as she was.

"No. I am not angry with you. You were not the one playing a game Christine…I was. A dangerous, foolish game. I fear for the second time this evening I must crave your pardon and beg forgiveness. I...I am sorry our night had to end so, but trust me when I say it is for the best."

Christine pressed her cheek to the wood and hot tears began to burn behind her closed eyelids.

"It is alright," she said gently, "I understand."

She didn't understand at all, but she would try. For him, she would try anything.

"You stole my hairpin, you pirate," she teased, smiling in spite of the threat of tears. She thought she heard him chuckle, but when he spoke his voice was strangely strained and thick.

"So I have."

"I would have it back, please."

"Well, then you will just have to meet with me tomorrow and we shall see if we can work out an acceptable compromise."

Christine felt the smile tug at her lips, a warmth spreading through her limbs and calming her at the thought of seeing him again—the thought that he wanted to see her so soon. "I would have my Maestro back too, sir. Or else I shall begin to take singing lessons with Carlotta."

She definitely heard a gasp of horror this time.

"You wouldn't."

"I might."

"She couldn't teach a rat to beg for cheese, let alone sing for it!"

"I hear she's decided to help train the chorus…to inspire us by shining example!"

" _Chorus_!?" his incredulity was palpable and Christine giggled deviously.

"My mercenary angel!" she heard him breathe, as though mortally wounded. "You win! You shall have your trinket and your Maestro. Just promise me one thing?"

"Anything."

"Promise you will allow me to call upon you tomorrow. Promise me I haven't ruined our evening. I...wanted it to be perfect. You deserve nothing less."

Christine wished with all her heart to sink though the wooden barrier and into his arms.

"You may call."

"Goodnight, Christine."

"Sleep sweetly, Maestro."

She stayed pressed against the wall for a moment longer, then turned to press her back against it. She heard no more sound from behind the hidden door, and with the realization that he must have already departed, she gazed at her bed and suddenly felt exhausted.

Crossing the threadbare carpet, she didn't even bother changing into nightclothes, but stripped off her gown, folding it carefully and placing it back inside her dusty armoire. Then, she curled up beneath the covers of the bed and fell asleep almost instantly.

She dreamed of green hills dotted with red roses and a noble donkey grazing lazily on lush sweet clover. She dreamed of a knight in tarnished armor, singing Tennyson to her while they lay upon the soft grass, his head in her lap.

* * *

Erik watched her sleep with an ardent tenderness that bordered on complete insanity. He was insane. He _must_ be to ever even entertain, let alone court the notion that he could ever be more to her.

 _Christine_...

His fingertips ghosted across the surface of the two-way mirror, equal measures of desire and regret filling him to the brim, but only one emotion was powerful enough to overflow and wash away all else.

He regretted having to trick her, cutting their evening short. He'd had no choice; it was either he let her go, locking her away in the safety of her room or…

His fingertips curled into a fist. Yes, he could regret the violence of his want. But when she was safe, safe from _him,_ he could strain and tear at the invisible chains binding him behind the glass knowing he would never betray that simple truth. She was safe. It was both his talisman against the beast, and his curse.

He couldn't regret keeping vigil over her, not for one second. Any moment he was near her was a precious gift, a reprise from the never-ending world of illusion and shadow that was all he'd ever known. His home, his career, his very identity was a finely crafted imitation. A simulation of a real life, a copy.

Looking out for her best interests gave him purpose. She was his reality. His moon and stars, his sun. Her expressions the seasons, her mouth a perfect bloom. Her touch was love; her smile could open up heaven. Her eyes were his sky, her laugh his air. Everything he could ever need, ever hope for or dream of.

 _My love. Oh, my love…come, dream within me._

Gloved fingertips stroked the glass, smoothing over the crest of her head as though he could truly feel those silken strands. He wanted to sing her a lullaby, to protect and guard her slumber as sure as her slow, steady heartbeat.

A deep, yearning sigh left him.

If she only knew how close he had come tonight. How close he had come to losing himself utterly in her soft arms, forsaking everything, kisses and secrets tumbling from his lips. He knew he would not have been able to let her go until she was beating beneath him, the culmination of all he had ever felt, thought and dreamt of in his life.

His life, its meaning and purpose laid bare to him in smooth skin and tremulous curves. She would speak his name as they soared higher, too high to the sun, all crackling energy, undeniable gravity and ravenous thirst drawing him ever within her, his answer, his muse…

His body immediately answered his fevered imaginings with an ache that tested his every ounce of control.

If she only _knew_! If she only knew how much—but no. No, that could never, ever be. For if she even felt a fraction of his devotion, nature itself would demand she forsake his sacrilegious worship.

His forehead joined his curled fingertips against the cursed but necessary barrier between them. Oh yes, it was quite necessary. An ironic smile twisted his mouth. How fitting to be trapped within reality, watching his dream's desires so sweetly laid before him. Closed lashes, crescents of lace against such pale delicate skin that seemed to glow from within. She was made of purest stardust, an unearthly being, not mortal or angel.

His Christine was so far above such mundane imaginings. _His_ Christine. His, indeed—but only in shadows and the deep, treacherous waters of his mind. The memory of her rushing into his arms the day he had told her she was ready to sing for the managers of the Opera, so soft and pliant wrapped around him haunted his every moment. At the time, he had been too overcome, too stunned to even hold her back.

And tonight…tonight she had _kissed_ his unworthy fingers and then turned her glowing face up to his, burning him away to ash with her unconscious beauty and seduction. Light of heaven, how _innocent_ she was of her own power! It was intoxicating. He was existing under its perpetual influence, and yet tonight he had failed to hold her when given the chance.

Surely, one kiss could not be a sin?

But it was; it would be. No, it was far too risky. His physical reaction to her was too strong, too overwhelming. Too many fantasies swirled within his imagination, fantasies where he held her and oh, how they _burned_! Her softness all around him, his hands molding it into something that would cradle every part of his body, every hard edge and unrefined contour.

He wanted too much…and therefore, he must refrain.

His eyes drifted shut, the sight of her curled up on that sawdust mattress still branded upon his eyelids. Then it gave way to another image. The sight of her soft mouth, caressing blood-red petals.

His blood stirred. So innocently, so sensually done! Such beauty. He ached so deeply it was part of his own heartbeat. How badly he had wished to kiss her! But her mouth was a salvation he was undeserving of, for if she only knew the darkness, the obsession that ruled him…

His throat constricted, hot pressure building behind his closed eyes.

She would fear him.

How she would fear him now, if she only knew how many times he had watched her in sleep...burning, aching, the brutal evidence of his need unbearable. His body, his want was the enemy. And he would protect her from its treacherous longings.

The only purpose he believed was his, body and soul was that he was meant to use all his knowledge, skills and talents to design heaven on earth for her. And he would not defile it with his own deficiencies.

A soft sound suddenly drew him out of his dark musings, like the brush of a butterfly's wing against his cheek. The object of his thoughts had flipped onto her back, one arm raised above her head, face tilted unconsciously toward him. Eyes open, wetness gone, every nerve and fiber of his being now focused on her expression, the way her mouth pulled downward slightly, the crease in her brow. Her chest rose and fell more rapidly—too rapidly.

She was having a nightmare. He recognized the symptoms all too well. Taking a deep breath, his lips parted. Melody, quiet and soothing flowed from his heart and into song.

He watched transfixed as a soft smile grew on her lips and she nuzzled into the bed covers, turning on her side to face him though she could have no notion he was there. He couldn't help his head spinning slightly, she was so achingly lovely! His heart broke and was mended, given new life and an eternity of possibilities, promises whispered with her every breath. He was so enraptured with the vision of her that he hadn't realized he had stopped singing until he heard her sigh, a name falling from her lips.

"Maestro…"

He closed his eyes. Torture. Pure and simple, sleeping soundly and dreaming things he could only guess in his fever.

"Christine," he whispered miserably. To hear his real name upon those lips…!

The fever raged within him, and in his delirium he heard her call to him over and over. But he was determined that she never, e _ver_ know his secret.

Erik was defective. Erik was unpredictable, and destroyed all he touched. No…her gentle, Maestro, always a gentleman was who she needed.

Heart pounding in his ears, he pressed his lips to the glass.

But _oh_ , if she only knew…

* * *

 **TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

* * *

 _Knock, knock..._

It was what she'd been waiting to hear all day and it sent a shower of tingles down her spine. The sound of his firm knock on her bedroom door made her heart rise up like a glowing moon and her eyes were no doubt full of stars as she dashed to the door and pulled it open.

 _He had come. He had come to call, just as he promised!_

She had been trying in vain to bring some kind of order to her hair. The pale strands were being particularly disobedient tonight. Finally deciding to it tie it up in a messy bun, she pressed her hands over her faded skirts. When she had opened the door however, all misgivings about her argumentative hair and faded dress vanished.

He was dressed impeccably in a charcoal back evening suit and deep, forest green cravat. His copper hair was brushed neatly back from his face, which was mostly covered by the usual mask. Tonight, rather than the flesh colored one he often favored it was black lined with silver. His mouth, which remained the only expressive part of his face left uncovered besides his eyes, curved upward into a smile. Heat flushed her cheeks. Was she wearing anything at all under those steady, intense grey eyes?

"Good evening," he said, his voice impossibly deep and yet so soft. The heat suffusing her cheeks spread like wildfire, fueling the smile that lit her face. "I present you with one officious and overly-demanding Maestro, as requested."

"You're late," she replied, trying to keep the teasing from her voice. Though she couldn't see his expression fully due to his mask, she fathomed one eyebrow quirking in bemusement as he gazed down at her.

"A thousand apologies milady. You wouldn't believe how difficult it is to find decent valet service for an honest pirate and his ship. It is most inconvenient."

"An 'honest' pirate? Is that not a contradiction in terms?" she couldn't help but ask.

"I am honestly overcome by your charm."

Shyly, her hands rose to the messy bun atop her head. "You are too kind," she said, her heart fluttering excitedly against her breast. She wondered if he could see it within the cage of her heart, wings beating wildly, for his gaze roamed from her hair, face and neck to drop to the neckline of her dress for an instant.

"Not kind, no," he replied and though his voice was measured she felt something shift between them. He was leaning toward her, bending his impossibly tall frame down until his lips brushed her ear. "Close your eyes," he whispered to her. Her eyes drifted shut, his nearness like a heady enchantment she couldn't resist. There was a rustling of cloth and his gloved fingertips were encasing hers, drawing them around something thin and cool to the touch.

Her eyes flew open. Her butterfly pin lay in her palms, and she felt joy burst within her at the sight. Her mother's pin was very old, handed down from mother to daughter for generations but it was one of the only family keepsakes she had. Now, staring at it glittering in her hands she saw it transformed. The stones that formed the butterfly's wings, most of which had been missing now shone brightly. The two tiny diamonds that were the butterfly's eyes twinkled at her, as though communicating a private secret, whispers passed down through the ages meant just for her…and someday she hoped, her own daughter.

She was so lost in her astonishment she hadn't uttered a word for nearly a full minute until she sensed her Maestro shifting almost imperceptibly on his feet. He was nervous. It was enough to draw her out of her memories, memories of watching her mother placing the pin so delicately into her thick, chocolate curls. Her mother's hair had been Christine's favorite thing in the world. So soft, rich and dark. Nothing like her own gold strands that refused to obey even the slightest suggestion.

"I hope you do not mind…I know you did not ask me to, but I had the necessary supplies at my disposal and it is truly an exquisite piece. The craftsmanship is to be commended, it is no simple task to work with such pliable metals on such a delicate scale with such precise detail—"

Her arms were around him, her head coming to rest against the silky finery of his dress jacket, which could not compare to the feel of his heartbeat beneath her cheek, a heart that she knew without question held the most generous, gentle soul she'd even known.

She felt him stiffen as she knew he would, but this time a small sound escaped his lips and she smiled into his chest. He wanted her touch, she knew it in her bones. And if she had to touch him and hug him a thousand times a day until he was used to such affections, like an injured animal learning to trust again, she would gladly. She felt his fingers curl around her sides, barely brushing, but it felt like they had scaled the mighty pyramids themselves.

"Thank you," she breathed into his chest, and his response was a shuddering sigh. How was it possible she mused, that a man as physically sizable as her Maestro, broad and exuding the unconscious power of a lion be so affected by such simple touches? Needing to see his beloved face, his kind grey eyes, she drew back and felt his fingers brush her cheek. Her heart skipped—had he been about to stroke her hair?

Their eyes met and she beamed at him like the sun. "I wish Mama could see it," taking a step back and holding it up to him, she asked shyly, "would you help me? I have no glass. Would you be my mirror?"

"Of course," he granted, although she could hear his beautiful voice scrape against his vocal chords. So affected! She was determined now more than ever to give him more touches and as often as she could, proper or not.

He took the pin from her and gently slid it into the bun atop her head, his expression one of the utmost serious concentration. When his hand fell away, he studied her for a moment pensively.

"Does my mirror approve?" she asked, the hint of teasing playfulness in her voice. He didn't reply, but brought his hand back to drift across her cheek, his fingertips gently pulling a few loose strands of her hair out from behind her ear.

"There must be at least one imperfection," he finally replied, his fingertips lingering on the pale strands he wound around her face. The air between them was quickly becoming magnetized and before she knew it he was pressing a soft kiss to her forehead, barely a brush of his lips.

"There," he murmured against her skin. "Now I can almost believe you belong down here, with us mortals."

"Am I suitably imperfect?" she queried, voice breathless with humble pleasure at his compliment.

"Oh yes. Perfectly," he replied, his lips still pressed lightly against her forehead. Christine reveled in his rare display of physical contact. She closed her eyes and savoured it, committing every sensation to memory. His lips felt so soft, and she couldn't feel the mask's cool edge which allowed her to imagine he was kissing her without its encumbrance. He smelled of candle smoke and violin varnish. To most, it would have been faintly acrid—but to her, it smelled like home.

Unconsciously taking a step towards him again, she thought for one dizzying moment that he would take her in his arms and they would both be engulfed by the force of the storm brewing between them. Lightning and thunder, wave after wave of sensation pounding against all resistance…

But he was stepping back. She opened her eyes and his expression was dark with something that both excited and troubled her.

Wordlessly, he offered her a gloved hand.

She took it and silently he had led her to their music room. A few candelabras were placed on various surfaces, giving the familiar space an unearthly golden glow. It was a beautiful glade of wooden tables and discarded props, with its worn divan and in the center an aged piano.

Leading her to the divan, he bent at the waist as he guided her to sit.

"For you," was all he said.

Walking back to the piano, his tall broad frame so full of grace and confidence, he had procured a black case from the bench. Watching his back curiously, Christine saw him put a shining flute to his mouth and a few clear, bell-like notes hit the air. The beginning of a warm-up scale. She was delighted, anticipation racing through her. He had told her once before he could play many instruments other than the piano—it was thrilling to think he might share them with her. Conscious thought was wiped away as he turned to face her and begun to play in earnest. Haunting notes flowed from his lips, stirring the air and gliding towards her with every breath, ensnaring her, drawing her in.

 _Beautiful…_

She was drawn headlong into memories of her homeland and of her Papa. Of tiny stone cottages, buffeted by the salty sea air. Men in felt caps, fiddles tucked under their chin. Her Papa playing an old folk melody for a group of spellbound children, while she sang words of love and love lost. Of fairies and trolls. If she closed her eyes, she could still feel their little hands tugging at her skirts, begging for just one more song…

"I can teach you the words, if you wish," he was saying gently. "It is an old Irish tune, a folk song. It has always been one of my favorites."

Christine opened her eyes to see her Maestro standing by the piano, flute in his large hands. He was staring at her with an intensity she had never seen before. How strangely he was acting tonight! She reveled in it, secretly catching every look and touch and locking them away inside her heart. She couldn't help but wonder though, why was he acting differently? It was as though he were not consciously aware of the way he absently stroked the flute in his hands, his chest rising and falling rapidly, licking his lips every now and then, his every muscle poised as though ready to capture her against him at any moment.

Had her impulsive embrace truly breached the wall of propriety he had staunchly refused to cross until now?

 _You weren't playing games, Christine. I was, and a dangerous one…_

Her Maestro had never spoken a falsehood to her; could breaking down the barriers between them truly be so dangerous?

"I was a fool to think anything could blemish your perfection. You are breathtakingly beautiful," he said, breaking through her thoughts and turning her apprehension into pure warmth. Unexpected. Impulsive. His affection was as changeable and impossible to anticipate as a summer storm.

A shy smile shaped her mouth but she held his gaze resolutely. "As are you," she said softly.

He said nothing and turned from her then busying himself with putting the flute back into its case, breaking the spell.

"It is the truth, my dear," he spoke finally, ignoring her statement. "I fear that someday your beauty will be my ruin."

She opened her mouth to reply, but she felt a thread of hurt curl around her heart. Had she not dreamt last night of his voice, his touch? The memory of his gaze, utterly focused on her mouth had produced some of the most vivid and consuming fantasies she'd ever experienced. His kiss to her forehead…she could still feel its brand on her skin. His barest touches were like a cry of longing she could feel herself opening up to more and more, each heavy with suggestion and undiscovered promise. Never, except in her dreams had she ever considered that one day she would meet someone like her Maestro. Coming to the Opera house had been her Papa's dream for her, that one day she would shine beneath the spotlight sing for thousands. It had been her wish as well, to raise up the sound of her soul and share it with nature, with the earth and everything that grew from its majesty.

Tomorrow, she would get her chance to prove she deserved the honor. She would sing as the infamous Marguerite in _Faust._ Yet even her debut failed to elicit the force of emotion that her Maestro's gift and his gentle kiss had elicited.

"Your restraint will be mine," she said gently but clearly, unable to contain the words. They had a surprising effect; he turned to face her, eyes strangely bright. Her words had wounded him. She could sense it. His expression moved her from her perch on the divan and within a few steps, she was standing so close she could see the pulse flutter at his throat.

She was treading into unknown waters, she knew. She was testing his resolve, but she couldn't help herself. She needed him to understand that in the endless months spent in his company she had become irrevocably tangled up in him—and in this moment she wanted more than anything to be his. She wanted to know his name. Where he grew up and where he lived. What songs his mother had sung to him.

She wanted to be his girl, his sweetheart. They would chase the loneliness away together, united by trust. And she wanted that trust so badly.

He didn't retreat as she approached him, though she saw his fists clench at his sides. She didn't stop. They were caught in each others gravity and neither could break away. Rising on her toes, she tilted her head toward him until they were breathing the same air, mere inches from each other.

Her gaze swept over his masked face, to all the places that were bared. They felt like treasures, the soft looking skin of his throat, his smoothly shaven chin, his ears which she noted tenderly were an ever-deepening shade of crimson. His hair, like burnt copper in the candlelight's glow.

When she reached his eyes her heart thudded almost painfully against her breast, astonished at what she found.

Tears clearly burned there, shining as he looked down at her with an expression she couldn't begin to decipher. He was too close, too encompassing for her to understand what had moved him so. Had her words been too harsh? She made the smallest retreat, beginning to pull back with a concerned query on her lips. Then, his hands were sliding behind her head and there was no more time for thought as he leaned forward and caught her mouth with his. Trembling at first, as though pressure could be fatal and then hard, devouring, his hands encasing the back of her head and holding her to him. The onslaught was devastating, heat searing past skin and bone until it felt as though he was beating beneath her very skin.

For a full moment, she was too stunned to respond. A sound escaped her and he replied by slanting his mouth more fully across hers. Christine felt as though some part of her soul was rising from the ashes, shining and restored. Instinctively, her hands wound their way around his neck, pulling him closer. Within seconds of her unspoken encouragement, she was swept flush against his chest and his mouth had opened with a deep, carnal sound followed by his tongue which pushed past the seam of her lips in one stroke, taking, tasting.

It was quickly becoming too consuming, too forceful. His mask pressed painfully into her skin, but he seemed lost to all but the need to crush her against him. Yet she couldn't draw back. Her hands moved from his neck to his face, fingertips pressed against his cheeks, wishing that she felt flesh and not porcelain. Her instincts continuing to battle between the need to gentle him and stoke his ferocity, she felt him groan against her. He was unraveling, and she cursed her body as the need for air become more than a vague inclination and more of a necessity. Another sound escaped her, sounding both breathless and distressed.

Instantly, she felt him tear his mouth from hers but instead of retreating he folded her into his embrace, head dropping to rest upon her shoulder. Her blood still sang with the startling reality of his affection, and the feel him still pressed so intimately against her. Unable to resist, she arched further into the wall of his body wanting more. His hands slid from her back to grip her waist, his breath hot against her neck as he turned his head to nuzzle her, words tumbling from him, most incomprehensible but a few surviving his agitation.

"…keep you…Christine, please let me, oh my darling, my heart, _Christine_ …"

His lips moved against her throat and her head fell back unresisting, eager for their touch.

"Tell me," she murmured, her voice breathless and almost unrecognizable to her own ears. She couldn't stop. His mouth was destroying the patience and restraint she had known for all the months she had slowly, irredeemably been falling in love with a masked man.

"Please, tell me who you are. I want to know everything—I want to say your name, your given name…how can Maestro ever suffice?"

 _When I want to be so much more to you…_ she was about to add, but she felt him freeze in her arms before she could finish. Confused, she tried to meet his gaze but he was already drawing himself up to his full height and pulling back. Sorrow swelled with her; he was slipping away.

With the impending distance growing between them, she gazed up into his face desperately. He wasn't looking at her, desolate grey eyes staring steadily beyond her to the opposite wall.

"What is it?" she breathed. "Please, tell me why you hide yourself. I know you wish to tell someone, I can see it in your eyes…I wouldn't tell another soul, I promise!"

"Christine—" his tone was wary and warning.

"Are you married?"

His gaze locked with hers, incredulous. "No!" he breathed, aghast. "My heavens you couldn't possibly think I could—!"

"I don't know what to think," she countered, but she knew in her heart she had only said it to reach him, to compel him to look at her, to _listen._ The pain in his eyes was tangible and it hurt her to see it, but she couldn't keep blindly accepting his affections, his gifts without knowing about the man giving them. It wasn't that she wanted to hurt him, she wanted _him;_ she wanted his trust.

"For all I know you could have a dozen wives, one for each day of the week," she said flippantly, loving the way his eyes widened with horror. She imagined if his mask had not been present that his eyebrows would have shot into his hairline. "You could be a disposed prince from a distant land, last of his line and tragically hunted by those that seek to usurp your throne…"

His disbelieving laugh only encouraged her unmerciful imaginings.

"You could be a baker, or a candlestick maker. With your genius you could be a traveling renaissance man, like da Vinci, leaving a trail of cathedrals and priceless works of art in your wake."

"You had me at baker, _mon petite._ How I wish I could approach a bag of flour without it turning to ash."

"You could be an angel."

His laughter faded and he regarded her with something not unlike fear. All teasing gone from his voice, he took a moment before he replied. "No. I am not an angel. Even in your ignorance, you construct such admirable identities for me, I feel I would do anything to be worthy of even one."

Her eyebrow arched. "So…you _would_ like a dozen wives, then?"

His ears turned a most charming shade of crimson. "No—! That is, I did not mean…of course, I would like _a_ wife…" he looked so utterly lost, floundering and stuttering. It was incredible, she had never thought him capable of being so embarrassed. She couldn't help her teasing. It was too tempting to indulge in his unguarded reactions, for she was so used to him always being in control. Perhaps if he lost a little of that mystique, he would realize there could be so much more between them. They could grow and evolve. They could love.

"Oh, I see. Just _a_ wife," she replied, feigning a surreptitious understanding. It wasn't wasted on him and within seconds she felt his hands come to rest upon her shoulders.

"Just one," he said, and the earnest seriousness in his voice sobered her playfulness.

"And she would be lovely," Christine surmised wistfully, unable to staunch the coil of hurt that lashed through her at the idea of a nameless, faceless woman putting her delicate hand in his, their silhouettes melding into one as he bent to kiss her. His hand beneath her chin, tilting her head to meet his gaze broke her from such cruel images.

"No," he said, and his eyes roamed over her face tenderly. Her hands lifted to rest lightly on his chest, her fingers curling into his jacket. "No? Why ever not? Every man wants a lovely wife."

He smiled, a slow smile that filled her with a sense of yearning so acute she found herself rendered near breathless at the sight. "Loveliness is born from imperfections. Those errant details that make something truly spectacular. Your chin is set with a slightly crooked angle, see?" his fingers traced her chin lightly. "Most would see this as a flaw, yet it allows you to shape your mouth in a specific shape to allow the maximum amount of air to flow into your throat and past your vocal chords. It is part of who you are—and part of the reason why you can bring a man to his knees with the singular splendor of your voice. I do not want perfection, or loveliness…I want so much more…"

Her cheeks were burning beneath his touch, her mind foggy as he drew nearer, bending towards her incrementally as though not fully aware of his actions. "You need to go back to your room," he said, but his voice held no conviction and he sounded as dazed as she felt. His mouth was so close, all she had to do was tilt her head forward a fraction and she would feel the warmth of his lips again.

"I don't want to leave you," she said, shivering as he involuntarily brushed the tip of his porcelain-covered nose against her cheek.

"You must," he breathed, his mouth pressing against hers with the barest of pressure. Skin against skin, gentle friction that seared her senses and set her blood aflame. "Please, Christine…" the sadness in his voice was so achingly strong she couldn't help but press her mouth to his, hoping beyond hope that any relief she was capable of would flow from her touch, that he would _feel_ her love. And it was love; she knew it was. How could it not be when his touch, his mouth were what stood between her and the cavernous, lonely abyss that had been her heart before she knew him?

"Go," he whispered, an urgent command in his tone, gentle yet unyielding. "For tonight, go. You must rest. Do not dally."

"But—" she began to protest, only to be silenced by the firm, sure pressure of his mouth. A true kiss, as though she were locked in an eternal sleep and he was trying to rouse her soul. She didn't recall who broke away first, yet when they did he whispered two words into her lips that she couldn't argue with.

"Trust me," he implored, the words spoken into her flesh and resounding within her body until they beat along with her every breath. "Go."

She was drifting away from him, and she felt the anchor between them grow taut. When his hands found hers and brought them to his lips one last time, she couldn't help but ask.

"Will you promise to tell me something of yourself? Anything…it can be anything you wish."

"I promise. It would seem that pirate or no, there is very little on this earth I could ever deny you. Sleep well, my dear."

Their fingertips drifted apart, caught in opposing currents that carried them further away from each other. She turned and made for the door, glancing back as her hand curled around the knob.

"Only when I dream of you," she said honestly, and saw his tall frame seem to flicker like the stuttering of a flame. The sight of his stricken face, masked or no, was clear. A small, knowing smile touched her lips.

Not tonight…but sometime soon she was not going to let him push her away. And on that night, he would have no choice but to surrender to her desires.

"Tomorrow, I sing for you and no one else. Goodnight, my angel," she said softly, slipping out the door and closing it quietly before he could react to her chosen endearment. For to her, it was more than pretty words.

It was truth.

* * *

Erik gazed at the closed door for what could have been minutes, or hours. Time had dissolved with her sweet declaration.

 _Goodnight, my angel..._

Raising a hand to his lips, he tore his glove off to feel the part of his body that was the envy of all else—his eyes slid shut in euphoria, and a sound that contained all his barely restrained fervor escaped him in a low moan.

Would his body ever know a moment's peace now that the memory of her taste still lingered on his tongue?

As if in reply, his muscles tensed and it took all the power in his being as well as some borrowed from whatever deity he could invoke to not fly after her, tearing the door from its hinges and sweeping her up into his arms, into his bed…

 _His bed. His home._ The kingdom he had built that housed all his dreams, all his secret longings. How empty it now seemed! She had been alarmingly close to the truth when she had so innocently suggested he could be a hunted prince. Hunted yes, he amended swiftly. Prince? The thought was made all the more painful as he recalled how she had tilted her face toward him, eyes full of playful innocence.

No, not a prince.

 _A monster…_

If only her kiss could have transformed him. If only he didn't have to hide his shameful identity from her, he could have told her everything that was in his heart to say.

 _I want you. I want you for my wife. You are the muse of my being, my reason for drawing breath. I want to hold you, taste you, every part of you until we forget where one ends and the other begins. For this was the way it was meant to be! I was made for you…_

His fist came down on the piano lid, sudden and violent.

 _A monster…a monster was created for you like in a nightmare. Oh Christine, my beloved, forgive me…! Forgive that I am a man unworthy of you and yet I desire beyond reason…_

He regretted his loss of control immediately, and pressed his palm flat against the piano's wood as though in apology. No one, and nothing should have to suffer for his own shortcomings. These should have been the most glorious, wondrous moments of his life and yet all he could think about was how he was going to deal with her insatiable curiosity. How was he ever going to be able to keep his promise to her when even the smallest revelation about his true identity would undoubtedly cause him to lose her forever?

 _Tomorrow, I sing for you…_

Possessive desire so potent it made him grasp the edge of the piano for stability swept through his limbs. For him, for _him!_

Gathering himself together he picked up the flute case from the piano bench, intent on making sure his love had reached her room safely. He would always make sure she was safe. It had only been the obvious (and for the moment) debilitating evidence of his desire for her that had made him unable to accompany her back to her room as he usually did.

Straightening himself with flute case in hand, he made his way to the door his mind already wandering unbidden to the image of his obsession shedding her layers of clothing, each dropping like the petals of a flower to reveal the smooth, creamy skin he had been blessed enough to glimpse earlier. Perhaps she would be brushing her hair…golden waves cascading down over one bare shoulder as she stroked it gracefully…

His body gave a torturous throb at the mere thought. The memory of her touch still left him so aroused that it was all he could do to stride through the darkened corridors while drawing enough oxygen back into his brain to think clearly. When he reached her door, his keen hearing picked up a soft sound floating out from beneath it. She was humming to herself.

Erik made the last few steps to her door, but just barely.

 _I want to speak your name. How can Maestro ever suffice…?_

Knees giving way, he finally let himself slide to the ground outside her closed door, the darkness shrouding him and giving small comfort. He didn't recall how long he kept vigil outside her door, nor how long he kept pressing his lips to the wood, desperate to touch anything that had a connection or might have been gifted with traces of her.

* * *

Gérard Carrière loved his son deeply.

Despite his own shortcomings and mistakes, he had tried to raise his son to the best of his ability…at least, that is what he tried to convince himself of on a fairly regular basis. And lately, the lie was becoming harder and harder to repeat, even in his own mind. _Especially_ in his own mind, where memories and lost chances seemed to be growing ever deeper like trees taking root.

His hands, so weathered and wrinkled looking that sometimes he barely recognized them anymore shook as he poured himself a stiff drink. He needed one badly. He had just returned from Erik's home, where a very confused and innocent girl had hung upon his every word.

Christine's debut in _Faust_ had been a debacle of the gravest extremes. The entire theater was in uproar: the leading lady, after failing to impress the Parisian audience and cruelly jeered at, had been abducted right off the stage by a mysterious, masked man.

Gérard swallowed his bourbon in one gulp. _Oh, Erik. What have you done?_

Of course the poor girl's performance had been obviously sabotaged, but that wasn't the problem. The problem now was that everyone in the theater, including the half of Paris that had shown up for the debut, now knew that the Opera Ghost was a _man_ —a man who had abducted the theater's new ingénue.

Of course, the next few days were spent in a flurry of damage control on his part. The newspapers were buzzing with the scandal, and he could only hope that the city's abnormally short attention span would soon be diverted to some other bit of juicy gossip.

 _The_ _Palais Garnier, always famous for its innovation, was merely giving our fortunate audience a sneak preview of a brand new, upcoming Opera. We are so pleased that this preview provided our patrons with such excitement and unexpected enjoyment!_

It had been a weak cover-up, but one he hoped would do the trick. Now all he had to do was procure a new Opera, keep the management calm, make sure Christine stayed safe and that Erik didn't bandy about like a crazed wildman.

Gérard sighed deeply. He was getting far too old for this.

He went to take another swig from his glass, realized it was empty then poured himself another generous amount from the decanter on his desk. Actually, he mused, he didn't truly think that Erik would be a problem. Not with Christine in his care. The girl's eyes had been so full of compassion when he had revealed Erik's tragic story! She cared about him deeply, there was no doubt. And he didn't doubt that her emotions were poised on the brink of love. He knew the symptoms well. It was written all over her face—a face that reminded him so painfully of his Belladova. It wasn't her features, per se but the soul that glowed behind them. Kind. Passionate. Adventurous and above all, brimming with innocent sensuality.

He understood why Erik wanted her so badly for himself—why he had tried so desperately to maintain the façade of the enigmatic teacher. His heart ached for his son, knowing that he would not likely take well to the fact that he had divulged so many of his secrets to Christine. But he'd had no choice. She needed to know, deserved to know who and what she was dealing with.

A sharp sting of guilt cut through him. He hadn't told her everything. Indeed, there were things he hadn't even told Erik himself yet. There would be time. There had to be more time.

Gérard rubbed his forehead wearily. _Time…_

Time to put away his bourbon and continue with the damage control. Christine had staunchly refused to leave Erik's home—not after hearing what he had to say. He only hoped that her subsequent conversation with Erik would yield positive results. If not…well, he would take things as they came. He always had, yet he couldn't ignore the feeling of dread hanging over his head, the feeling that despite his efforts things were slowly but surely spinning out of control.

Something was going to snap and give way. Gérard only hoped he was there to catch Erik when it did.

* * *

 **TBC**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

* * *

The world had shattered and was blown away around her, leaving a new one in its place.

 _Erik._

She lost count of how many times she'd repeated those two syllables in her head then aloud, testing them on her tongue and marveling at the power they evoked within her.

He had a name. He had a father and a mother who had loved him dearly and without limit. His mother had adored him and he had lost her, too. Just like she had lost her dear Mama and Papa. Heart pounding in her ears, she wiped her cheeks and was surprised to find them wet. She had felt curiously numb after M. Carrière had left her, trying to assimilate everything he had revealed to her.

Now, all the emotions that had been held in suspension while she attentively listened to every detail M. Carrière had imparted to her were bursting forth.

 _His face. Oh, my dear child you cannot know the horror of his face! But his mother saw nothing but beauty in it. She loved him beyond anything else on earth. She used to sing to him constantly. And he hardly ever cried. He was such a happy baby…_

 _When she died, he refused to leave her side. It was one of the only times I'd ever seen him truly cry. He was inconsolable. It took him days, months, to stop. When I brought him here, to the_ _Palais Garnier, he would cry and cry, calling for her. That's how the story of the opera ghost began—and I encouraged it for his own protection. The fewer who knew about Erik the better. He was never meant for the world above…he has a remarkable genius, of that there was never any doubt. He's run this opera house for the past fifteen years, and I have been proud to carry out his vision. From the orchestral selections, to the lowliest prop. All of it was Erik's doing._

 _But he can never live in the world above, in your world. You must understand this. The world would never accept his affliction and it would break his heart. It would destroy him. If you care about him and I believe that you do, you will leave this place as soon as you can._

 _Do not give him false hope, I beg you._

Christine brought a hand to her mouth—where just a night before she had felt his warmth—and took a deep breath that threatened tears. His eyes…that look in his grey eyes when he had avoided her questions regarding his true identity…it made sense now. She had recognized that look, for it was the same one that had stared back at her from every mirror she encountered for months after her Papa's death.

Dead. As though a part of herself had died and was being buried with him. Gasping with the power of her grief for him, she clenched her eyes shut. He had been so undone, so frantic when he had swept her off her feet and rescued her from the stage after her horrible debut. Someone had finally drawn the curtain, but at that point she hadn't cared anymore.

She'd let him down.

Her Maestro, all the hard work and effort he had put into her voice, encouraging her, saying how proud he was of her…their kisses, her promise that she was going to sing for him that night. That she would bare her soul for him, and him alone.

 _He is not meant for your world…do not give him false hope. Leave him, or it will destroy you both. I beg you…_

His arms around her had been like an anchor, and she had buried her head into his chest not caring where he was taking her. The screams and boos had died away, but she still felt violated. Tainted, unclean. Their beautiful music, her promise had been crushed. She felt as though they had both suffered a physical attack. He had murmured soft words of comfort to her the entire way down into his underground home. He had sounded just as devastated as she felt, but she could see him strain for a hold on his control for her sake. When he had given her something to drink, suggesting gently that it would help her sleep she'd taken it without question. She trusted him so…

It had begun to work almost immediately. She didn't remember how she got there, but she recalled the softness of a feather mattress and pillow. He'd laid her gently down and she had gripped his white linen shirt between her fingers, her limbs feeling heavy and listless but determined.

 _Stay…_

She remembered his warmth. His arms folding around her, one large hand stroking her arm while the other brushed against her head soothingly. His lips against her temple, speaking words she tried in vain to remember exactly. Whatever they had been, she had never felt so loved or so safe. Not since she'd had a family. It had been so long since she'd felt so complete. Standing from the chair she hadn't vacated since M. Carrière had left her, she walked over to one of the windows lining the far wall of the little parlor of Erik's home. Leaning on the sill, a cool breeze gusted off the lake and curled against her face like a caress. It felt soothing, yet why did her heart beat wildly as though she were still in his arms? She knew the answer almost instantly.

He had done something last night, something that he had never done before and the mere memory of it left her feeling breathless, as though his mouth was ghosting over every inch of her skin.

Just before she had fallen asleep, a deep, dreamless sleep she had heard the most beautiful sound imaginable. He had sung to her, a deep melodious song that had solidified two important revelations even in her hazy, lethargic mind. Firstly, if her voice was truly sent from heaven, than his was the wings on which it flew. Secondly, she was irrevocably in love with him. She loved his kindness and his laugh. She loved the way his eyes reflected every emotion that was hidden behind the mask.

 _The mask is necessary, my dear. I wish to remain anonymous…_

He had been so reluctant to speak of it and now she knew why. He was disfigured. Deep, powerful emotions stirred within her. She did not care about his face—how could anything so skin deep detract her from loving his mind, his actions, his _soul_? Wiping her cheeks again, she straightened her skirts and brushed the messy blonde waves from her face. He had left her some hours before, promising to return as swiftly as he was able.

 _I must make preparations, my little bird. I am unused to having company...you must forgive my absence, but I will return to you before you miss me. I promise._

She would not divulge what M. Carrière had told her about his past. She wanted to hear it from his own lips, when he was ready and they'd had a chance to talk. To spend time together and hopefully, to build upon the trust they shared. She would make him see that he could trust her with his heart. She felt as though she were groping in the pitch dark, yet she couldn't let go of the one consuming reality that kept her bound to a seemingly untenable situation.

 _I love him._

Turning from the window, she made her way back to the bedroom he had so sweetly laid her in the night before and began to make up the bedclothes. Heat saturated her cheeks as she tidied up the room. She just needed time. M. Carrière had promised faithfully that he would respect her decision to stay with Erik for a little while longer. She appreciated his candor and his efforts to protect their privacy—and her reputation. How could she ever repay him?

 _Leave. I beg you._

Her heart sank at the memory of the older man's plea, and impulsively she stopped fluffing the feather pillow she held and brought it to her chest, hugging it tight and breathing in the scent of _him._ Impossible. She couldn't leave her Maestro— _Erik,_ now. He needed her and she needed him.

 _Reckless…_

She had fallen asleep in his arms, in this bed. It seemed too wonderful, too dreamlike to be true. But she could still hear his voice brushing against her temple, his fingers stroking her arm. He had kissed the top of her head and the palm of her hand. His mouth had been warm and slightly moist. If she had been able and the sleeping draft he'd prepared for her hadn't worked so well, she no doubt would have sought that mouth with all the hunger and want his sensuous, gentle song had woken in her.

Would he have responded to her touch and melted into her embrace? Or would he have fallen back into the role of consummate gentleman and refrained? Burying her face into the pillow, she breathed deeply and felt her body hum with delightful sensations as his scent surrounded her.

 _What would her gentle Maestro do if she were to listen to her heart and express her feelings with her hands and mouth, pressing herself against him until there was no more emptiness between them, his given name on her lips demanding, begging him to succumb to the cravings she could no longer withstand?_

He had forgone his cravat last night. For the first time, he had looked dishevelled, untidy and undone. His soft linen shirt had practically hung from his muscular shoulders, unbuttoned and careless. He hadn't even noticed. She had been his sole focus, his only thought. How it made her ache to think of it. How she had wanted to run her fingers through his coppery hair, see those grey eyes always so intent, so measured darken to ebony pools of desire as they always did when he was trying to resist his impulses.

Her debut had been a disaster…but she would still sing for only him, hidden away beneath the world and so enticingly, seductively _alone._

Replacing the pillow and smoothing the bed covers one last time, she noticed her hands were trembling. A thought had flitted across her mind and it left her feeling light-headed and yet completely unabashed.

 _He says I should beware his desires…perhaps it is he who should be worried about mine…_

Crossing over to the small vanity tucked in a corner of the room, she busied herself for a few moments trying to freshen up. He had promised to be back soon and she couldn't help the fluttering of her heart and stomach at the thought of surprising him with a good morning kiss.

She had never truly attended to her appearance in a dedicated way, preferring mostly to let nature and a healthy sense of proper hygiene guide her routine ablutions. Now, she felt a keen urge to impress, to entice. It made her feel excited and sinful at the same time. Brushing out her hair with her fingers, she turned to see a beautiful silk gown the shade of heavy cream, laid out carefully on a small chair beside the wardrobe.

 _Please, make yourself comfortable while I am indisposed. There are fresh clothes in the wardrobe and help yourself to anything you like in the kitchen. Forgive my lack of refinements, I fear my bachelor's ways must be quite shocking to you. I do not even own a proper tablecloth…_

She had felt like she wanted to cry. Here he was, offering to share everything he owned and he was still worried it was not enough. She hadn't had the time to tell him that she had never owned a proper tablecloth either. She and her Papa moved around the country far too often to even _have_ a table worth burdening themselves with.

Suddenly, a wonderful thought struck her. Quickly divesting herself of her Marguerite costume she sighed in relief as she replaced it with the flowing white gown laid across the chair—had Erik laid it out for her in the hopes she would choose it? She would not disappoint him then. Adjusting it as best she could without aid, she glanced at herself once more in the mirror. Her hair flowed down her back, unbound and wild looking. She had not been able to do up all the lacings of the dress by herself so she looked quite risqué, the neckline scooping low across her breasts and revealing the tops of her shoulders.

It was more skin than she had ever revealed to anyone, and it was all for him. For the way he made her feel and what she wanted to express. This side of herself, she was quickly discovering, was both foreign and the most exhilarating transformation she could have ever imagined. Without a mother or guardian to confess to, she had no anchor, no frame of reference. She was flying blind and it was thrilling. It was like singing, when she bore her soul into every note. Untrained, unhindered. He, Erik had taught her to master her passion. To perfect her technique through practice and opening her mind to new experiences. How simple the comparison seemed—her body was an instrument and secretly, wickedly, she wanted him to play it to perfection. Smiling at her reflection in an almost giddy excitement she turned and hurried from the room, feet bare as she padded along in her eagerness to prepare things for his return.

Finding the kitchen, she took in the sparsely furnished room with only one small birch table and two chairs. Plain. No signs of life or companionship. Just an empty table and two chairs. Her heart constricted at the lonely sight—had he ever hoped for someone to share a meal with?

Reaching for a linen apron that hung pristine and untouched by the small stove, Christine put her plan into action with bold determination.

He would have someone tonight.

* * *

Philippe de Chagney hated having to decline an invitation to play cards.

It was not unusual for him to spend a few days in a gambling frenzy, lost to every other nuance of life such as eating and maintaining track of where he was and who he was with. Nothing else mattered but the cards. Nothing else existed but the rush of adrenaline when he knew his rival had bought his bluff and was about to lose a great deal of money and pride.

The steady supply of alcohol and women that mingled together in between these moments of blessed clarity were nothing but distractions, an outlet for his boundless, inexhaustible restless energy.

 _Women_ …Philippe's hand gripped the silver handle of his polished walking stick more tightly as he bounced and rattled within the carriage he'd ordered some hours before to take him directly to Paris—to the Palais Garnier. His stomach roiled with displeasure at the early hour, and his eyes watered heavily at the morning sunshine that insisted on hitting him directly in his bleary eyes. He had drunk far too much the night before for such early excursions, but it could not be helped.

It all came down to the pathetic truth that _she_ was the only true friend he had ever had.

Reaching over to jerk down the sunshade, he reveled in the relief that darkness brought with it. Closing his eyes against another wave of nausea, he let his mind wander over the disturbing conversation he'd had with a calm yet weary sounding M. Carrière earlier that morning.

 _Please, Monsieur Viscomte. Do not worry yourself—I have it on good authority that Mademoiselle Daaé is quite well. She is simply resting and does not wish to be disturbed. There is much to do in preparation for the new Opera. I will make sure to pass along your regards._

 _Like hell you will…_ had been his only thought. Carrière was hiding something, of that he was certain. He'd dealt with enough liars and cheats to know the difference; he had lied enough himself to know when the truth was being neglected, warped or conveniently unspoken. Carrier was hiding something. Usually, this fact would have not bothered Philippe. He was used to surrounding himself with liars on a fairly regular basis. Such an admission might have humbled some men, but not he. He was an arrogant, reckless youth with a selfish and rebellious nature. His pursuits were simple; drink, women, and of course, gambling with no thought of responsibility or accountability. Money was to be treated like wine—indulged in, and pissed away. It was a crude yet accurate analogy that he had been taught since infancy.

And if anything, Philippe was his father's son.

So why then, we he bouncing down a country lane headed towards Paris early on a Saturday morning when he should have been sleeping in until noon after a hard nights pleasures?

 _Christine._

Her name conjured up an image he held close to his heart at all times, despite his protestations against becoming too attached to anything in this life. Everything was in a constant state of decay and never permanent; that is why one must grasp everything in their reach while they still can. Leaning his head back against the cushioned headrest, the jostling and bumpy ride began to smooth out and his stomach began to feel relief. They must be close to Paris now, with its beautiful paved roads.

Closing his eyes, he indulged in the image her name brought into his mind. A small, beautiful little girl with wild golden hair the color of sunbeams at sunset and sparkling sea-blue eyes. A soft, sweet dove. At least, on the surface. He knew all too well of her spirit and vigor. He had lost to her at wrestling too often to doubt her strength of will and uncanny ability to turn every notion and presumption he had ever been taught about women on its head—and he loved her for it.

She was her own spirit, unique and precious. She was his little partner in crime, his best and only friend. It had been years since their forced separation and he had managed to forget the agonizing sting of losing his only friend—another lie he fueled by copious amounts of frivolity and alcohol—when he had seen her again at the Bistro. How beautiful she had looked! Like an angel sent from heaven, yet she had looked so different from the little girl he had known. He knew that after she and her father had been ordered from his family estate, life had more than likely been hard for her. Her father, a good and kind man was near penniless. Still, as he had gazed in astonished wonder at her on the stage, amidst bawdy patrons and jealous divas, she had shone with a light he had only ever glimpsed of in the stained glass windows of churches he hardly ever attended anymore. As a boy, he'd always believed it was God who shone the light that made the Saints and Angels glow in their glass like beacons from heaven. Alive with light.

Surely, this enchanting creature was his Christine but what had happened to create this glow inside her? _What had turned on the light inside her that now burned for all to see?_

He had sat in stunned supplication, tears burning in his eyes for the first time in what felt like ages. He was only a man of one and twenty, yet lately he had begun to feel so much older. Tired. Lonely. Wretched. Helpless…but her voice, her _voice!_ It could stir the heart of even the most venal sinner!

Hope, unlike anything he had ever felt had washed over him, absolving him with its sacred forgiveness. Understanding. He had known she had a gift from the time she was a little girl and would sing at concerts and country fairs with her father's accompanying violin. But this! This was something different—her gift had become more than pretty notes.

She was a goddess on earth.

Philippe smiled bitterly. A pure vessel for heaven and his childhood friend. That still had not stopped him accosting her after the performance and trying desperately to seek an audience alone with her. Old habits die hard.

She had been thrilled, genuinely happy to see him. Her eyes shone with memories and fondness. _Fondness, not desire._ She had seemed distracted, saying that she needed to get back to the Opera house immediately. He had relented, realizing that she was not going to fall prey to his smiles and compliments. Really, he should have known better. A beautiful, achingly desirable woman she had become…but this was still Christine. Giving her a ride home in his carriage, they had spent the whole ride laughing and reliving old adventures—and during that time something that even rivaled his near religious experience listening to her voice occurred—he realized that he felt more alive sitting and talking with her like two long-lost twins than all the fleshly rendezvous he had ever perused. He was _glad_ she had rejected his suggestion that they find somewhere more private to renew their acquaintance.

And in that one short evening, Philippe knew he would forever owe his life to this woman, for she made him remember that within his heart there still lived a little boy who would forever be a knight to her pirate, protecting her honor and wiping the blood away from her every scraped knee.

This was why he was now traveling through the sleepy streets of Paris at such an ungodly hour. He knew Carrière was lying about her whereabouts—he didn't believe for one moment that the masked man who had rescued her from the stage the night of her disastrous debut was planned.

He was grateful to the stranger.

If it couldn't have been he himself who had swept her from that disaster, he was glad she seemed to have another dedicated to her welfare. Yet he had to be sure. Who was this man, who rumor had named the infamous Opera Ghost? Not a ghost, obviously—even from Philippe's seat in the third box he had seen how physically hulking and intimidating this man was. He had lunged onto the stage like a black-cloaked panther, dwarfing the remaining actors in comparison and moving with such unconscious power and grace Philippe had wondered whether he was possibly military trained. Philippe recognized the confidence, the expediency of movement from his elder brother. His beloved Pierre. The responsible one. The one who _should_ have been heir. The one who died in battle, far away from home and from those who adored him.

The carriage ground to a halt and Philippe exited it gratefully, breathing in the cold morning air and relishing its chill. He still nursed a malady from the night before, but he had forced himself to stop drinking at a reasonable hour so that he would not sleep the morning away. No. He wouldn't be so selfish, not when his friend needed him.

 _Friend._

The word was like disinfectant on a raw wound. It stung, and then felt better than any amount of debauchery could have. Walking stick in hand, he made his way up the grand staircase with the full intent to seek out M. Carrière and demand the whereabouts of Christine Daaé and the identity of her mysterious guardian angel.

 _Oh my little Christine…_ he thought grimly. _I do hope your angel is benign and not a madman as rumor claims…_

For that, Philippe promised himself, would just not do.

* * *

Erik had just finished rigging a significant amount of gunpowder when he heard familiar footfalls echoing from the secret entrance to the caves.

"Gérard," he called out in greeting. "To what do I owe the honor of two visits in as many days?"

The older man approached him warily and Erik knew before he spoke one word that he hadn't slept well, which undoubtedly meant that the bourbon decanter on his desk was severely depleted.

"How is she, Erik?" he asked without preamble.

 _Not in the mood for polite conversation, I see._ Erik thought. _Very well. I can appreciate that._

"Safe."

Gérard came to a stop in front of him and leaned heavily against the uneven stone wall. "That's not what I asked. I asked you how she was."

Erik straightened a little, head tilting to one side as he assessed his guardian more closely. "You don't look well, Gérard. Perhaps all those stairs leading down to my catacombs are becoming too tiresome. I could construct you a slide, if you wish. Might be fun."

A tiny snort and a half-smile at that. It wasn't a laugh by any stretch, but Erik still felt a flush of pride at its emergence.

"My God, Erik. Only you could tease me at a time like this. Sometimes, I feel that you will be the end of me."

Erik's brow quirked. "Oh come now, old sport. Don't be so dramatic!"

"Says the man holding a keg of gunpowder," Gérard nodded to the barrel in Erik's hands.

"Ah," Erik replied grimly, shifting the heavy barrel in his hands as though it were a mere box of cigars. "I can see where this might seem a little extreme."

It was Gérard's turn to quirk a querying brow. "A _little_?"

Erik turned without comment and began to set about his work again. He was almost finished. There was just one more fuse that needed connecting. Then all would be well—she would be safe from the terrors of the world above.

"You never answered my question, Erik. How is Christine?"

Gérard noted how the girl's name was like a stimulant to his son. At the mention of it, he straightened and his entire posture radiated with protective intensity. Despite the current predicament, Gérard couldn't help the swell of pride at his son's physical beauty. He was dressed only in his breeches and boots, a flowing linen shirt rolled up at the sleeves and revealing ropes of muscle that stretched into broad, well-defined shoulders. He was a sight to behold. Though his face might be heinous indeed, he had a grace and poise Gérard had never himself possessed. When Erik spoke, his voice was low and resonant. Like the velvet of night. How had he ever helped produce such a force of nature? Sometimes, it left Gérard speechless.

"I've told you the only thing that need concern you for the moment. She is safe, with me."

Gérard hated to see him in such obvious turmoil but persisted, knowing he was rattling the cage but also realizing it needed to be done. "When will you release her? If you do not soon, they'll come looking for you. I won't be able to protect you."

Erik couldn't help a sardonic chuckle. "Surely, you jest. Since when have _I_ ever needed protection? No, I'm afraid if someone is foolhardy enough to try and take her from me, they will find themselves parted from this life sooner than they'd no doubt like."

"This is no time for jokes, Erik. This is serious."

"I am serious."

Gérard sighed, rubbing his eyes ruefully. "At least tell me how Christine is fairing. Have you told her anything more of yourself?"

Erik hesitated for a moment, his gaze staring past Gérard and out into the darkness of the caves. When he spoke, his voice was calm and pleasant, but tense. "We have…discussed the current situation. Right now, the past is irrelevant. She agrees she is much safer where she is at the moment. She wishes to stay with me."

"For how long?"

"For as long as she wants. A day, a year. Forever."

"So she is not a prisoner?"

Erik's grey eyes found Gérard's again, and the older man felt a rush of regret at his choice of words as he noted the hurt burning there. When his son spoke however it was with the same dry humor it usually held. "My word Gérard—your opinion of me never ceases to flatter. No, she is not my prisoner. And I have told you everything you need to know for the moment, so you can leave satisfied."

"It's not _what_ you're telling me that has me worried. It's what you're purposefully leaving out," Gérard pressed, more softly this time. He had reached out a tentative hand towards Erik's elbow, but let it drop back to his side once more. If he had noticed the gesture, Erik didn't let on.

"I'm sure I'll never grow tired of your cryptic insinuations," he said wryly, although there was a slight edge to his voice. "Tell me; are they something you gleaned from previous study or are they simply another side effect of old age that I may look forward to?"

Gérard closed his hand into a fist and refrained, barely, from bringing it down on a nearby barrel of gunpowder. "Damn it, Erik! Do you not understand the repercussions of what you've done? People _saw_ you! Half of Paris, in fact! Do you truly think now that the Opera Ghost was seen on stage, kidnapping the infamous farm girl who would be the prima donna—?"

"She was sabotaged!" Erik growled, his anger finally spilling out and his words filled with pain and venom. "That _Carlotta_ , jealous wretch that she is, poisoned her! She _dared_ to defile her and those miserable sheep of an audience lapped it up, reveling in her cruelty! I should have ended it there—oh, how I _wanted_ to! It would have been a simple matter of slicing the wrong rope and instead of the curtain falling, I could have cast Lucifer himself down upon them!"

Gérard's stomach dropped away. "What do you mean? I don't understand."

"Neither do I, heaven help me," Erik replied and the anger was temporarily drained from his voice and posture as he set the barrel he'd been holding down carefully and leaned back against the cave wall beside the older man. He took a deep, steadying sigh and once again Gérard refrained from reaching out to him. He looked so lost in that moment—like the little boy who had always asked so shyly if he could hold his hand and show him his latest composition.

Now, his tall frame was bent so his head didn't brush the low ceiling, and Gérard realized with some comfort that it was _Erik_ who could now easily carry him like a child if needed. The thought was not unpleasant. _How lonely you've become, Gérard._ He thought ruefully.

"My temper," Erik was saying, despair etched in his beautiful voice. He paused to regard Gérard with steady, kind eyes. "Ah, but I don't need to remind you of my temper. When I jumped onto that stage all I could think about was saving her—God, she looked so devastated and afraid! I had to protect her, even if that meant giving up the exalted role of resident ghost. It didn't matter, it still doesn't. Only she matters. When I cut the rope to draw the curtain, to finally end the whole debacle, I was so close to reaching for the rope next to it. The rope suspending that great monstrosity of a chandelier that swung so tantalizingly over their ignorant heads. I could have done it, Gérard. I was _so angry_! It would have been so easy—poetic justice."

Gérard's heart clenched painfully in his chest. _Oh, my boy. My poor, poor boy._ He opened his mouth to say exactly that—to offer comfort, to be the father he knew despite Erik's independence he so sorely needed. But he did not. "What stopped you?" he said, barely above a whisper. Tired. Old. _Coward._

Erik looked at him then, and his face was transformed. It was as though he wore no mask, for no mask could possibly contain the look of pure wonder and rapture that illuminated every part of his body and set his eyes aflame.

"She was calling to me, Gérard. _Me!"_ his breath hitched and he pressed a hand to his chest as though trying to keep his heart from escaping it. Gérard didn't need to ask who 'she' was. He had seen a similar look of devotion in her eyes earlier that evening, when he had divulged most of Erik's secrets. A spark of guilt ignited with him…perhaps he should have let Erik tell her of his past in his own time…

"She was lost in a sea of chaos, adrift and drowning—and she was calling for her _Maestro_! I realized then that she needed me. Imagine if you can! An _angel_ needed me. And the anger, the hate I felt changed into one consuming desire to be her hero. Please…if…you would reserve judgement of such a ludicrous fancy for the moment I would be grateful. It has been a trying day and I am feeling emotionally delicate tonight."

"I'm not going to laugh at you." Gérard said, softly.

"No. I don't suppose you are. I am grateful for that small blessing at least."

"I would never laugh at you, Erik."

Silence bloomed between them, but it was not empty.

"I love her, Gérard."

"I know."

Gérard's hand did make its way to Erik's forearm this time, and he gripped it momentarily before Erik rose and began to pace, suddenly anxious.

"No. No, I don't think you do. I don't think anyone could know. I don't think God Himself would approve, if I gave a damn about such things."

"What do you mean?" Gérard prompted, worry beginning to etch its way into his voice when Erik didn't reply but kept pacing back and forth. "Erik, what is it?"

"It scares me," Erik said softly, coming to a halt with his hands folded tightly behind his back. Gérard gazed at him in astonishment. _Never_ , since he was a child had he heard Erik say he was scared of anything. Not anymore. Not thanks to his horrible irresponsibility as a father, and the damage it caused…

"I can honestly say," Erik continued ruefully, "that there are very few things left in the world that truly frighten me. But this…Gérard…if I could only covey half of what I feel every moment…I burn with a fire that is sin itself."

Gérard sighed, unsure as to how to respond. _Oh, Belladova. He is so much your son. How can I help him? Help me, my beloved._ "To love is not a sin," he said after a moments pause. "It is the greatest joy in life."

Erik's shoulders sagged, his tall frame seeming to droop in defeat. Gérard's heart ached to see it.

"Perhaps that is where I am deficient," Erik said thoughtfully, a sadness he had never heard in him before, not since his mother's death, filling the space between them. "The only joy I have ever known has been music and even then it is a dark, consuming obsession. Maybe I don't know how to love any other way than with everything I am, mind, body and soul. And I would sacrifice them all without thought when it comes to her. That is what scares me. Not the fact that I love with all I possess—but the fear of what I would _do_ for it."

"Hence the preparations I gather," Gérard said after a moment, nodding towards the gunpowder kegs. "It looks as though you are preparing for a war. Please tell me these are only to be used in case of emergency, and you're not actually planning to do any impromptu renovations."

Erik laughed, his body relaxing. Gérard felt a little eruption of joy in his heart at the sight of his son letting go of some of the torment he was carrying, if only for a moment.

"As tempting as that would be— _who_ in their right mind thought garish, inauthentic baroque was a grand décor idea for a theatre?—these are only in case of invasion. I retain the means to trigger them and they are not going to be used unless absolutely necessary."

"I see. Well then," Gérard said, straightening his sleeves and pulling his cigarette case out of his lapel pocket. "I am trusting Christine to your care and to show yourself a gentleman and not indulge in any felonies while she's decided to remain with you. You are old enough now to know how to treat a guest."

"If you mean offering an appropriate hot beverage and the most comfortable chair in my sitting room, then I'm afraid I've been lax."

Gérard gave him a disapproving look. "Come now, Erik. You sweep a girl off her feet in front of the whole of Paris…and then don't even offer her a cup of tea or a cushion? Tsk, tsk!"

Erik's grin was infectious. Straightening, he inclined his head towards the older man in supplication. "Of course, you are quite right. How remiss of me."

"You'd better be quick about making up for it then."

"I have been quite busy."

"Yes," Gérard cleared his throat. "Perhaps it would be best if you left the matter of ensuring your continued privacy to _me_ , for the moment. If you want fireworks, I can always help you arrange a display for her entertainment. _Away_ from the Opera House."

"Now _that_ would impress her, don't you think?" Erik said, tilting his head back in thought.

Gérard nodded, and began to retreat into the caves, already planning his next visit to make sure his son kept his word. He wanted to trust Erik—but with what he just revealed about the instability of his feelings, he thought vigilance to be the best course for everyone concerned. Perhaps they could all have supper together, and he could pretend that he was like any other father, bursting with happiness and enjoying the company of his son and his new sweetheart.

It was a hopeful thought, considering his son had no idea he was his biological father and the young lady in question was technically living illegally in the Opera House. _Oh, so tired._

"Indeed it would," Gérard agreed. "And a carriage ride in the moonlight afterwards, down by the river. At night it is quite spectacular."

"I would have to borrow one of the manager's carriages." Erik considered with a hint of sly intent.

Gérard took out a cigarette from the case and tapped it lightly before placing it between his lips and lifting his shoulders in a gesture of easy dismissal. "If one were to mysteriously disappear for an hour or two, I'm sure I could come up with a plausible explanation. Joyriders. Ghosts. I have an extensive repertoire."

"Thank you." Erik said suddenly, his voice achingly gentle and sincere. Gérard said nothing but blinked a little too rapidly, and turned to leave. Erik called out after him. "I do believe this constitutes as my first heart-to-heart chat about the fairer sex."

Gérard couldn't help the wry grin that shaped his lips around his unlit cigarette. It was the exact same grin Erik had given him not moments before. How cruel fate was.

"It's about time," he answered back over his shoulder. "And all it took was kidnapping the object of your affections and threatening to blow up the Opera House."

"I never did do things in half-measures," Erik replied, his tone laden with irony. "Oh, and do be careful not to light that until you're well out of the caves. Smoking is terrible for your health, you know."

"Thank you for the concern," Gérard said, and meant it.

* * *

Upon reaching the top of the long, winding staircase that led away from Erik's home Gérard stopped for a moment and panted tiredly. Perhaps a slide wasn't such a bad idea. Lighting his cigarette, he deftly found the secret lever that opened up the wall behind the statue of Atlas, and not for the first time appreciated the poignancy of Erik choosing that particular statue to herald the entrance to his secret world.

 _The world on your shoulders…not a part of it, but always feeling its weight bearing down on your soul._

How poetic he was becoming in his old age—and ridiculously optimistic. How long could he keep covering up for Erik _and_ Christine while the world above, the world that demanded answers snapped at his heels?

"Monsieur Carrière!"

Gérard resisted the urge to groan, then stopped his trek back up to his office to lean across the staircase banister and look down at the approaching, clipped footfalls. A young man was making his way toward him, a young man he had no wish to see at the moment for he was weary and wished for nothing but his desk and his bourbon. It had been a very _long_ night.

"Why, Monsieur Viscomte! What an unexpected pleasure," he said with a practiced grace that only comes with knowing how to lie without reluctance. "I'm afraid the Opera House is closed for the day, and there will be no performances for the remainder of the week while we prepare the new score. Might I reserve you a box for our opening night?"

The Viscomte shook his head determinedly, and paused only to take off his hat and give Gérard a courteous bow. "Not at the moment, Monsieur, thank you. You know why I am here."

Gérard regarded the young man with something akin to pity. He liked Philippe. Despite his arrogance and privileged irresponsibility, he could see a good heart that remained true to friendship.

"Where is she, Gérard?" the Viscomte asked, pleadingly.

Gérard sighed.

Make that a long night, soon to be followed by an even _longer_ morning.

* * *

 **TBC...please review! :)  
**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

* * *

Erik decided the most wonderful feeling in the world is when you are coming home to someone waiting for you.

Twirling the delicate rose he had acquired from the ever obliging gardens just outside the caves between his long fingers, he wasted no time in ascending the winding pathway that led around the narrowest part of the underground lake. When he reached the apex of the path and had a full view of his home spread out beneath him, he stopped a moment, frozen in near debilitating joy.

A light burned inside his windows. A warm, golden light that beckoned him home like no siren song could have. His feet began to move again without conscious command. A flurry of thoughts barraged his ever active mind, but one word was his heartbeat, his salvation.

 _Christine._

… _must offer her tea._

 _Christine._

… _.and a cushion. Damn it all, do I even own cushions?_

 _Christine._

… _.never mind the cushion. I'll offer her my lap instead. My lap, my heart, my soul…_

 _Be a gentleman. You're old enough now to know how to treat a guest. I'm trusting Christine to your care._ Gérard's voice cut through his quickly accelerating fantasies and a wave of frustrated resignation washed over him. Such a bothersome thing really, a conscience. Especially when it speaks with the voice of someone you've looked up to all your life.

 _Meddlesome old codger..._ Erik lamented though he grinned fondly. He had been thinking quite a bit recently about asking the old man one last favor. It had been a long standing joke between the two men that Gérard's retirement plan consisted of a wooden coffin and very little else. Such morbid practicalities had always amused them both greatly. Like father, like son. Erik felt his heart expand and collapse a little at the thought. He knew Gérard had no idea he had guessed long ago that he was his father. His hands, his eyes, his smile. They were all reflected in the older man's physique. Erik was simply biding his time, waiting for the right opportunity to…confront him? Blackmail him? Those words seemed tainted somehow, yet Erik couldn't deny that they were accurate.

Once Gérard left the Palais Garnier for good he, Erik would be going with him whether the old man wanted it or not. There was no doubt he was discomforted by the prospect of Gérard not wanting to take him. As a child, Erik had known why. His face—it always came back to his accursed face. How ashamed he felt that in order to not be parted from his own father he had to resort to such extremes. Yet he had to be certain Gérard would cooperate and not use his retirement as an opportunity to rid himself of the burden of a son he never wanted. It was a simple enough plan—once Gérard left, Erik would go too and the Ghost that had haunted the Opera would vanish like smoke from a guttered candle. Snuffed out. Gone forever. They could find a place in the country, a little cottage where the nearest neighbor was comfortably far enough away as to not become a nuisance.

Once established, Erik would then move out and build himself a home of his own. He did not wish to be a burden upon Gérard any more than he already had been and he appreciated the fact that the poor man needed some well-deserved rest and relaxation. Erik had even considered building him a workshop, where he could tinker to his heart's content, puttering away at woodworking projects he'd never finish.

The fond smile was back again, anew. _Papa_ …he thought, the familiar bittersweet pain etched into the simple word he kept close to his heart but never spoke aloud. _His Papa…_ he never did finish any of the projects he began. How astoundingly different they both were. Of course, the Garnier would no doubt go to rack and ruin once they both left. He almost felt a perverse pleasure in the thought. _It would serve them right!_ He thought darkly. No, once he, Gérard and Christine left the place for good they would be broadening their horizons beyond the gaudy trappings of the Garnier, with its corrupt, inept management and dunderheaded patrons.

Erik tightened his grip on the rose he carried. He would offer her everything. Everything he had in his power to give and even that which he would steal or beg or borrow. And she would never want for anything, ever again. Now all that was left was the asking…

If he were honest with himself, he'd known from the moment he saw her all alone on the darkened stage, unaware that she wasn't alone, her face shining with irrepressible spirit that this day was coming. The question had always been there, ripe and ready upon his lips.

 _Marry me._

Oh, he had tried to maintain a professional distance. He'd even managed to go a full three days in a row without dashing back to the two-way mirror in her little secret apartment beneath the stage to watch her as she slept, or brushed her hair. A gentleman? Not in the strictest sense, no. A devoted slave? Well, just because you can't _see_ the chains doesn't mean they're not there.

Her kindness had conquered him utterly and without a fight. Compassion had flowed from her voice that first night he had heard an angel's song like honeyed wine. Intoxicating, bewitching his mind and effortlessly wiping away all the frayed, sharp edges of his mind. One madness replaced for another. _Christine…_

He didn't know how much longer he could hold out. He felt as though every moment he were poised on a high precipice, all his energies focused on the jump he was destined to take. Yes, Erik was defective. Erik's face had destroyed many of the things he had yearned for in life—but Erik was also impatient. Selfish, impatient and above all, defiant.

Had he not denied himself long enough? Had he not hidden behind the finely crafted guise of _Maestro_ for too long? _Maestro_ would never have allowed things to have escalated the way they did the night before her debut. The night he had discovered the truth—that although he may never see an ethereal Garden of Eden awaiting those without sin—he had seen and tasted heaven, and it was in the rosebud pink of her cheeks and the eager softness of her mouth.

How could he deny wanting to capture that for his own? To protect it with all the strength and ingenuity his body and mind possessed? And wasn't it the right thing to do, the chivalrous thing to do, to offer her everything he had in exchange for her affections?

A weed, a black tendril of misgiving began to thread it way through his logic.

 _She has not seen your face._

The old argument, that ever-present and undeniable reality was like a mortal blow.

 _She would never want you if she knew._

Something like a growl escaped him, his body suddenly seizing with potent vexation. _No. She would take me still. She would give me a chance to love. My Christine is different, kind, the very embodiment of compassion. She is strong. She would not abandon me for something that is beyond my control…_

How he hated the part of himself that laughed, cruelly and with mocking pity.

 _She would run. She would scream. Perhaps that is what you wish. To hear her pretty screams…_

"No…!" he felt his strength leave him in a rush, staggering a little on the narrow path as his mind taunted him with images of past memories, memories where again and again it had been proven that no fellow human being could ever see him as anything but a monster.

 _Their wide eyes, always filled with horror and disgust…_

 _Hands reaching for him, grabbing him like claws and bringing pain, always pain…_

 _The screams…Oh God, please make them stop screaming—!"_

Something soft was in his fist, something velvety and it immediately replaced the nightmarish memories with a clear vision of her smiling eyes; her laugh as she reached out to place a warm hand on his arm affectionately; her flushed cheeks and soft voice, deep with desire and whispering to _him_ ; her kiss, like the petals of a rose in bloom.

He looked down at his fist and saw the rose he'd plucked for her had been crushed in his vice-like grip. A laugh escaped him. He was always getting tears and laughter mixed up. They were always mingling together as though one emotion could not exist without the other. Laughter and tears. Sadness and joy. Fear and love.

Gazing down the result of his loss of control, he gently cradled the crushed flower as though it were a baby bird. "I am sorry," he repeated over and over.

"I am so sorry. Forgive me."

The flower merely looked beautiful and broken. A horrible thought occurred to him—that this poor thing had been dying the moment he had picked it, unthinking and callously. "I should have left you be," he whispered to it. Unable to abandon it, he tucked it carefully into his pocket. A wave of self-loathing was approaching within his mind, but before it capsized his sanity a bell-like, sweet voice calmed the oncoming storm.

 _These hands are my kingdom. They create worlds for me, where there is no suffering, no loneliness, only music…I can feel your music and it is so beautiful!_

Salvation came at the mere memory of her earnest, imploring eyes and he could breathe again.

 _She is waiting for you. She is waiting for you to come home. She has left a light on. She is waiting…_

He would not dwell on the past, or his fears any longer tonight. The simple truth was that Christine was with _him_ now, waiting for him to come home to her. It had been so long since he'd had any true hope of redemption. Now, it was waiting for him just beyond the light that shone like a beacon from his window.

Let anyone tell him he could not make her his. _Just let them try._

* * *

Gérard was discovering much to his displeasure that he did _not_ like having to share his bourbon.

However, he was also of the opinion that when a member of the elite aristocracy shows up unexpectedly at your office in the early morning hours, it doesn't pay to be stingy. Two crystal tumblers of amber liquid now sat between the two men, who sipped them appreciatively and gazed at one another with polite belligerence.

The young Viscomte broke the silence, his shrewd gaze piercing. "I realize you don't have to tell me anything, Monsieur. Yet I like you, Gérard. I feel that there is much more to you than meets the eye. Thus said, I feel I can confide to you that this…interest in my friend's whereabouts is unfamiliar territory for me. I am not usually one to interfere. I don't usually _care._ Live and let live, I always say."

The Viscomte smiled but there was no joy behind the expression, only jaded irony.

"Let me speak plainly. I may be a cad and a bounder, but I am a rich one which is the most dangerous combination of all. So I ask you again and I implore you to be truthful. Where is Christine, and who is her masked savior?"

Gérard set his glass down on his desk and prepared to deflect the younger man with years of expert practice. The Viscomte, however, was far more observant than he had given him credit for.

"Please, Monsieur," he began before Gérard had a chance to speak. It caught the older man quite off guard—his voice bore a startling resemblance to the earnest, sincere tone he had heard Erik use not an hour before. "I only wish to ascertain her safety. She is…well, she is the only person left on this earth whom I consider as close to me as family. I need to make sure. I owe that much to her and her father."

"You knew them well?" Gérard asked, sincerely intrigued. The Viscomte nodded and this time his smile seemed genuine, almost shy. _My word…_ he thought to himself, _how our lives do change us into what we are, not what we might have been._

"I did know them well. They lived on my estate for a time, when I was a boy. I was fortunate enough to become a close family friend. It meant more to me than I can ever put into words. Especially after…" the Viscomte eyed his tumbler, and then tossed back the remaining liquor in one gulp. "…after my elder brother left home to serve his country." His eyes locked onto Gérard, and he seemed to appraise the older man intently.

"Christine's guardian angel. Is he a military man do you know? I only ask because when the police asked for my account of the night in question, I told them what I'd seen and that I suspected it wasn't a planned diversion. One would almost believe a man with such agility and strength could be specially trained. A soldier. A spy. A criminal. The possibilities are endless, and I assure you the Gendarmes are _very_ interested in what my suspicions are."

Gérard felt the floor disappear beneath him. When he met the Viscomte's eyes, the truth of the situation was clearly written in his impassive face.

 _Cards on the table. Royal flush, and you know I'm not bluffing._

"That's one of the few benefits of position, I suppose." The Viscomte continued softly. "One's word, for the moment at least, can quite conceivably be considered as good as law."

There was nothing more to be done. Gérard knew the young man was acting out of compassion and sincere worry, but if he did not assuage him of Erik's good intentions of his character—than this lonely, cynical young man would no doubt bring the whole Paris police force down upon them. It was too risky. He had to let him in on the secret.

 _God forgive me…_ he thought as he gave a deep sigh. So many of Erik's secrets are no longer his to keep anymore. Well, he would deal with that fallout when the time came. "He is not military. Nor is he a spy, or criminal. He is the true manager of the Palais Garnier _,_ a composer and an intellectual prodigy. He has no title, nor any family connections to recommend him. He is my dearest friend, and his name is Erik Gérard Carrière," he said, watching the Viscomte carefully. "And I would be forever in your debt if you do _not_ repeat what I am about to tell you."

The Viscomte nodded sharply and without hesitation. "You have my word. From what little I have gathered, their relationship does not appear to be…conventional in any regard. All I wish to know is the character of the man who has so entranced my friend."

 _You have no idea…_ Gérard thought drolly as he sat back in his chair. He couldn't deny that being able to tell another soul about his son made him feel a little lighter. But Erik's safety was always his priority—he would never forget that lesson again.

"That, my dear Viscomte," he said, sliding the entire decanter of bourbon between them with meaning, "is going to take some time."

* * *

Christine loved surprises. When she had been a little girl, one of her favourite things to do was delight her father and mother with gifts of pebbles and wildflowers, caterpillars and seashells. She knew now of course that such gifts were merely clutter that her parents treated like precious gems and jewels. They had encouraged her love of giving from an early age. So it was with a light, joyful heart that she had transformed Erik's tiny kitchen into a cozy, welcoming embrace that smelt of baked onion soup and cloud biscuits. She had managed to procure candles and even scavenged some little purple flowers that she put in a mug with some water and placed tenderly at the center of the table.

Divesting herself of the apron and hanging it back up beside the stove, she had been unconsciously pacing the kitchen and arranging, then rearranging cutlery, soup bowls, the mug of flowers…

She heard his footfalls in the parlor and her entire being seemed to quiver like a tuning fork, anticipation and nervous excitement racing each other in equal measure through her veins. Smoothing out the silk of her skirt, she suddenly felt as though her choice of attire was possibly a rash and devastating mistake. What if he thought it too inappropriate? What if the soup was too salty?

A wild giggle escaped her, cheeks burning. How ridiculous this was, worrying about a dress and soup when not two days ago she had only owned two patched and frayed garments to her name!

His footsteps drew closer, and she raised a shining face to the doorway. _How love does feel like a sort of madness!_ She mused as her mind raced with anticipation.

She'd planned it all to perfection—she would call out to him in welcome and meet him in the doorway. She would curtsey and spin for his amusement in the first new dress she had owned since childhood and then bestow him with a sweet kiss on the cheek.

She would rein in her wild impulses for once and they would share a civilized meal. She would allow him time to adjust to her presence in his home and would not rush things. No, they needed to move slowly or else she might burst with all she had learned about him over the past day.

At least, taking it slow was the plan until she heard him mere feet from the kitchen, his boots making gentle thuds on the wooden flooring.

Christine held her breath. He was in the doorway, seeming to dwarf the room with his broad shoulders and long, lean frame. His shirt was partially untucked. He still hadn't laced up his collar from the night before, and the skin of his throat and collar bone looked pale gold against the stark white linen. She noticed the beginnings of dark stubble around his mouth and chin—just a faint shadow that made him look tousled and wild. He had black smudges on his hands, one of which gripped the door frame. His eyes raked over her, from the top of her head to her toes and back again.

Christine's heart stuttered against her ribs. He looked dirty, scruffy and uncivilized. She had never wanted to kiss him more than she did at that moment, when his unguarded eyes finally locked with hers. Their grey depths were lit from within by pure adoration and she basked in its glow.

"You are beautiful," she said unthinkingly before he could speak.

Well, at least she had _tried_ to control herself for a few successful moments.

His mouth spread into a wider grin, an expression she had rarely if ever seen him give and that made her burn with curiosity. Her Maestro had always been so controlled. Not humorless by any means, but so painfully guarded. Was she at last seeing glimpses of _Erik_ beneath the surface?

"I believe you have already claimed that word utterly, my dear."

His voice was quiet and soft, almost reverent. Yes, he may look different from the man she had come to know as Maestro with his unshaven face and unkempt appearance. He looked more human, more fallible and slightly unpredictable. But that voice—there was no doubt that this was the man who had been her friend and mentor. Her hope and love. _I love him._ It was too much. Before she knew it her bare feet had carried her across the room and into his arms. Her lips found his without preamble, and she could have sworn she felt him stagger backward a step under her tender assault. But he did not let her go.

He was swift to recover, his hands tangling in her loose hair and cradling the back of her head, desperation clear in how forcefully he held her against him. He was much more confident than he had ever been. She wondered if their escape from the debut, sleeping in each others arms and comforting each other from the wounds of rejection and humiliation may have finally overcome some of the walls of propriety that had stood in their way for too long.

And then she didn't care about anything except his mouth.

She sighed blissfully into his lips, her hands wandering of their own accord up the length of his arms to spread across his shoulders, feeling the taut muscles shudder and stretch beneath her palms. He seemed electrified, sensitive to her every touch and movement. Her gentle ministrations drew a deep, soft moan from him. She felt her feet leave the floor, and suddenly the edge of the cedar counter bumped against her back. His body was flush against her in an instant, the long length of him towering over her—the physical breadth of his chest and arms effectively caging her. His mouth was warm and moist, large hands cupping her face, thumbs stroking her cheeks as he parted his lips and spoke into her mouth.

" _Christine…"_

There was nothing she would not do for that honeyed, dark voice…how she wanted to say his name! But she refrained, wanting to give him the dignity of choosing to confide in her. A soft sound escaped her throat instead, which only seemed to ignite his body further, his hold becoming fierce as he moved his mouth against hers. They were pressed so close, she could feel his heat, the sharp angle of his hipbone, the hard planes of his torso and stomach—vaguely she realized that the hardness against her belly _couldn't_ be his hipbone…

 _Oh holy virgin…_ He caught her bottom lip between his teeth gently, his hands guiding her head back as he began to trail hot kisses across her jaw and neck.

She fought for breath, pure fire consuming the air around them as he worked his mouth against the sensitive skin of her throat. Her hands were wandering from his broad shoulders down between their bodies to his chest, then to his stomach, tugging at his linen shirt and untucking it completely. _God,_ what his mouth was doing to her! She needed skin, to seek out his bare flesh with fevered hands. After a few seconds she had succeeded in slipping one hand beneath his shirt, her fingertips feeling like slivers of ice against the scorching heat radiating from his taut belly.

He froze against her and gave a low, surprised sounding grunt that quickly degenerated into a sound she doubted ever existed before falling from his lips. It was unlike any human noise she had ever encountered, for how was it possible for someone to convey such intensity with a mere exhalation of breath?

Christine suddenly realized the magnitude of her choice to entice him—they were both coming apart at the seams. Their mingled pants filled the air, bodies stilled by the force of such deep pleasure but also locked in a checkmate of wills that could either save or condemn them both. They were so close to tumbling over the edge of sanity.

S _aved or condemned…_ With his body pressed fully against hers, his hot breath against her neck, smooth, trembling skin beneath her fingertips Christine found it nearly impossible to tell the difference between the two outcomes. Then, the trembling beneath her fingers seemed to spread throughout his entire body and he was leaning away, hands sliding from her face to grip the counter's edge on either side of her. Her hand slid from beneath his shirt to gently stroke his cheek soothingly, for he was breathing hard and not meeting her eye.

How had things spiraled so quickly out of control? She felt drunk on wine, on _him_ but the way he was shaking now, his ragged breathing, the sweat beading along his neck…the gravity of his reaction to their lapse in constraint struck her with horrible finality.

He was scared.

The realization was like a douse of frigid water down her spine—he looked scared, no, _terrified_ of her!

He continued to shake and seemed for the moment, unable to move any further away from her. Christine's heart broke for him. Why did her touch frighten him so? Had she hurt him? He was breathing in short, rapid breaths through his nose now, his eyes clenched shut as though trying desperately to keep from crying out. She continued to stroke his masked cheek, her other hand coming up to gently rest against his arm comfortingly. She searched for the right thing to say, something that would help him through whatever internal battle he was waging, but the only words that made it past her lips were "I made you soup," in a soft, tentative voice.

"Marry me."

Her eyes widened. They had spoken at precisely the same time, she slightly breathless and he hoarse and raspy.

"What…?"

Again, their voices merged together in a confused duet. He opened his eyes and met her gaze.

"Maestro—?"

"Christine—?"

They both laughed breathlessly, the tension snapping like dry tinder. As his words sank further into her consciousness however, she found her mind reeling back in shock. _Had he just…asked her to marry him?_

"Did you just…?" she inquired as though in a dream, drawing back to gaze up into his face wonderingly.

"What kind of soup?" he quipped unexpectedly, in all mock seriousness.

"Onion, with cloud biscuits," she replied automatically, still gazing at him as though she'd never seen anything like him before. And she hadn't. He gazed at her for a moment, his grey eyes suddenly filled with such tender sadness that she ached with it.

"I've put you on the spot," he said gently, releasing his grip on the counter to catch her hands in his and draw them against his chest. "Forgive me. That was cruel. I sometimes forget myself, forget that I have not known you my whole life. There is still so much….so much you don't know about me. And I have much to learn about you. We have time," he said, bringing her hands to his lips and kissing them once, softly.

"Yes," he murmured into her skin. "We have time."

* * *

To give him credit, the Viscomte had been most generous and once they had worked their way through his bourbon decanter, had produced a flask filled with something potent and equally delightful.

Gérard needed it. After so many years of vigilant silence regarding his son and his past, his body felt as though a physical weight were being lifted off his shoulders. Without its constant oppression, he felt light-headed and slightly dizzy. Rubbing his temples, Gérard was surprised yet again by the young Viscomte as he reached across the table between them and gripped his arm, comfortingly, before releasing him and sitting back in his chair.

 _What a curious, multifaceted young man._ He thought, realizing for not the first time how this perfect specimen of youthful vigor reminded him forcefully of another, older man who had consistently proven throughout his life that goodness was not always borne from experience but from strife. Yes, this young man and Erik had much more in common than either would probably ever have guessed.

And more importantly, what they had in common at the moment was Christine Daaé.

The two men sat in silence for a few minutes, both digesting what had been said. Finally, the Viscomte spoke. "Thank you, Gérard," he said, much more seriously than one of his age might be expected to sound. "I give you my word that I will divulge none of what you shared with me this morning."

"And what of your interviews with the police?" Gérard asked, keen to smooth out this wrinkle that could threaten everything he'd worked so hard to protect.

"I shall not be speaking with the police again," the Viscomte said with finality. "Unless, of course, you require it of me."

Gérard gazed up at the Viscomte through slightly hazy eyes. "I'm not sure I take your meaning," he said.

The Viscomte folded both hands over the top of his walking stick, a gesture that gave Gérard the impression of finely manicured control. "I do not wish to appear cryptic. I only mean that the man you have described to me may at some point soon be in need of…assistance."

Gérard felt his back prickle indignantly. " _I_ help him, monsieur. We have no need out outward assistance."

"In the past, I'm sure not," the Viscomte said in a measured tone. "But let me be frank. A man such as you have described; brilliant, resourceful, independent…and completely isolated from society for his entire life—cannot be expected to simply 'fit in' now that he has decided to court Christine. I worry for them both, monsieur."

"Do you?" Gérard asked tiredly. He could see the young man's point—if he were honest with himself it was no different than what he had been afraid of all along. But part of him still wished to live in a wonderful, comfortable bed of denial. He had always been of the opinion that you dealt with unpleasantness only when it occurred. Why try and prevent that which you have no hope of influencing?

"I do," the Viscomte replied, gently. He sighed, bowing his head for a brief moment as though collecting his thoughts. When he met Gérard's gaze again, the older man was astonished to see the anger that burned there. "I speak from experience, believe it or not monsieur. My elder brother was…the gentlest soul who ever existed. Kind, empathetic. He longed to be a writer. But that was not a profession that pleased my father. He insisted that Pierre enlist in the army, as an officer."

He snorted, the disgust and loathing so plainly written on his handsome face that he looked years older, embittered and hostile.

"Pierre wanted to please him. He wanted to be responsible and bring honor to the family name. So he enlisted when he was eighteen. My beloved brother left home that cursed summer—and when he came home, the last time I saw him alive—I barely recognized him. He was changed. Miserable. Broken. My parents doted on how handsome he looked in his officer's uniform, but it was _I_ who held him as he wept in the night, delirious, living in a nightmare he couldn't escape. He was never meant to be a soldier, yet because he loved my parents and me and he wanted so badly to take care of us, he sacrificed his sanity and his soul."

Gérard glanced down at his weathered hands for a moment, while the Viscomte bowed his head again. Yet when he met the young man's gaze again, there were no tears. Only hatred.

"Your son appears to be a man of singular moral character and fortitude as well. But he is delving into unknown territory. They come from two different worlds, monsieur, and sooner rather than later those worlds are going to collide."

"I want him to be happy," Gérard said, almost to himself.

"Then you must prepare to see him fall," the Viscomte said.

Gérard closed his eyes, seeing a little boy with a strip of cloth covering his face sitting at the piano he had just acquired for him. His hands, longer than usual for one so young flew across the keys as though he had always known how to play. As though it were the most natural thing in the world for a boy of four to do.

"We are in this together, Gérard. That I can promise you." The Viscomte was saying and the anger had receded from his voice to be replaced with kindness.

Gérard could not thank him; he could not even bare in that moment to open his eyes.

* * *

"A picnic?" Christine said with a delighted smile. Her Maestro nodded enthusiastically. They had discovered some time ago that while they had been…distracted, Christine's soup had boiled over and was now the consistency of sticky mud. The smoke had begun to clear now, and they were no longer leaning out the window drawing in lungfuls of fresh air that blew across the lake. The offending soup had been disposed of by Erik, who had insisted it was still salvageable and that he would eat it regardless of how solidly soldered it was to the bottom of the pot. He would use a hammer and chisel if he had to.

Christine had laughed at that, wiping her eyes as they streamed from smoke and, if she admitted it, embarrassment. Once the disaster had been cleared away however she had flatly refused to allow her Maestro to endanger his life by eating the glop. So instead they sat down at the table to enjoy the cloud biscuits which had mercifully been baked and removed from the over earlier.

After enjoying each others presence for a time and the blissful new feeling of domesticity, her Maestro had suggested they go on an adventure.

"An adventure?" Christine had pondered aloud, her cheeks still feeling flushed and hot. She had not forgotten his proposal— _was_ that a proposal? She hadn't had a chance to find out as the stove had caught fire and distracted them both for some frantic minutes. Afterwards, he seemed to pull back and they settled into a comfortable if not intense silence about the entire subject. The thought of his spontaneity still made her heart flutter, her mind skipping from feverish thought to feverish thought. Her Maestro, Erik, seemed to have completely relaxed in the elapsed time since their impromptu embrace, and now spoke to her with the same affectionate familiarity he always did.

She did not push him. After all, he had said that there were things about himself that she did not yet know and that they had time. She hoped that this meant he was going to open up to her about his past soon, before she grew too impatient and let something slip.

"Yes, my dear. I thought you might like to see more of my realm. We could pack a picnic—I believe I have some treats to tempt you and I have been so longing to try out my thermos and basket. You are still hungry, are you not?"

Christine's stomach answered for her with a plaintive grumble.

"Well said," he teased. Christine grinned back at him unashamedly. "A picnic would be lovely, thank you."

"Well then, let us not delay a moment longer! For what good are plans if one allows time to gobble them up? So, no time to waste!" he rose from his chair gracefully, motioning for Christine to remain seated while he strode about the kitchen, opening cupboards and placing things in a large basket he produced seemingly out of nowhere. Christine watched him fondly with her chin in her hand, loving the way he hummed and muttered to himself as he worked.

"Shall we use the crystal glasses? Oh, why not! And the red or the blue blanket?"

It was heaven.

"What do you think, my dear? Red squares, or blue flowers?"

"Oh, flowers please!" she answered, trying desperately to keep a straight face and failing miserably. The irony of watching a huge, unshaven man who radiates primal masculinity dither over which crocheted blanket to use (had he crocheted them himself?) was not lost on her.

"Yes. Yes my dove, you are quite right. I do believe the blue flowers will suit our adventure exactly. Now, I must beg your leave for a few moments while I make myself presentable again. You'll forgive my boorish appearance, for I quite forgot myself when I glimpsed you in your gown. I...am so pleased that you find it adequate."

There it was—the hitch in their best laid intentions. His voice remained polite, but his eyes…they burned.

"I love it. You shouldn't have gone to all the trouble—" she began, surprised to hear the shyness in her own voice.

"It was no trouble," he interjected gently. "It is never any trouble. I wish for nothing more than to give you beautiful things, you see."

He seemed to come back to himself after regarding her intensely for a moment, then tilted his head toward her in a gesture that she knew so well.

"I will be right back," he promised and then, was gone.

* * *

Gérard had bid the Viscomte farewell at a half-hour before noon, with the understanding that he was to call if he needed help, or aid of any kind. He also asked Gérard to pass along his regards to Christine when he next spoke with her.

Gérard had watched the young Viscomte leave the Opera House, his gate confident and sure. There was no hint of the young man who had spoken so venomously of his parents and had showed a wisdom far beyond his years. He was simply a wealthy, arrogant youth again.

 _How the incongruities of life never cease to amaze…_ Gérard thought. He had been preparing to leave his office and stop by the little café where he often ate a late lunch, when he had been startled by a sharp wrap on his door.

"Enter," he called, cautiously. No one, save the theatre manager with a complaint about this or the other ever knocked with that much gusto. He straightened reflexively, noting that indeed, Choleti had pushed the door open and was marching into the room with a look of great agitation on his face. In his wake, a grizzled, unfamiliar gentleman with a shrewd, observant air followed him into the office.

"Gentleman," Gérard offered graciously in greeting.

"Yes, well Gérard," Choleti said in a rush, as though they had already been in the middle of a conversation. "This is all becoming a bothersome mess, I can tell you."

Gérard blinked at the two men and tried to appear blameless. It wasn't difficult—technically, he had smoothed things over in time and no one was the wiser about Erik's unexpected appearance in the middle of a full performance. Why then, he wondered did he feel suddenly as though he were being placed beneath a magnifying glass? The stranger with Choleti spoke, his tone blunt and to the point. "I am Ledoux, monsieur Carrière. Inspector Ledoux of the Gendarmes."

Gérard felt a small implosion somewhere in his stomach, but ignored the discomfort expertly.

"Ah, it is a pleasure Inspector. What can I do for you? You've caught the theatre in a bit of a frenzy, I'm afraid. We are preparing for a brand new Opera, you see."

"A brand new opera we have yet to receive!" Choleti lamented to the room at large. "You promised me faithfully, Gérard. You said it would be on my desk by the end of the week—"

"I read your advertisement in the morning tribune," Ledoux continued, ignoring Choleti completely and focusing his hawk-like gaze on Gérard. "I was impressed that you were able to pull off such a publicity stunt without any critics or reporters catching wind of it. By all accounts, it was quite the spectacle, and more than a few patrons believed they were witnessing a crime, not a preview."

Gérard swept his hand to the chairs in front of his desk deftly, gesturing for the two men to sit. He chuckled, and procured his cigarette case. "I will be sure to pass along your praise to our choreographers. They will no doubt be tickled pink at the thought their hard work was such a success."

Choleti didn't take a seat, but continued to pace the office anxiously. Ledoux didn't sit down either, but accepted a cigarette from Gérard and consented to let him light it. "Then you do not deny that this stunt was meant to be provocative?"

"Of course not, my dear Inspector. Provocative sells tickets. Surely, you must agree that _any_ publicity is good publicity from a theater owner's perspective."

"And yet this theater's owner," Ledoux continued evenly, nodding towards Choleti who was now rummaging through a stack of papers on one of Gérard's end tables muttering about deadlines and bank repossessions, "had no idea of your plan." The Inspector took a long, lingering drag on his cigarette, the smoke rising in thin snake-like tendrils around his weather worn face. The silence was heavy with insinuation, but Gérard persisted bravely on.

"Indeed, Inspector. It was my...initial intent to inform monsieur Choleti about the entire venture—but, alas, and this is quite to my own embarrassment—as you can see, I have yet to procure the Opera itself. I therefore thought it prudent to make it appear as though monsieur Choleti had no knowledge of the event, should it be brought forward that we would have to push our debut night to a later date."

"So you hoped to take full responsibility for the event?" Ledoux queried.

"Yes," Gérard said. "I had hoped that any embarrassment should the preview fail to entice would be laid squarely upon my doorstep. It was a novel idea, after all. A live, interactive preview for one opera during the performance of another has never been attempted before."

"You certainly made an impression," Ledoux said dryly. He nodded to Gérard and then to Choleti, who was now leaning against the far wall of the office with his head in his hands.

"I can appreciate your need to keep any unwarranted anxiety out of the equation," the inspector said plainly. Gérard beamed at him. "I am pleased you understand."

"Yes. Well, I'm afraid I am still going to have to conduct an investigation monsieur Carrière. You see, we've had several witnesses who claim that the 'actor' who jumped onto the stage and 'abducted' the lead soprano has been seen lurking around the theater before the date in question. In fact, information has been put forward to me that this man is _not_ affiliated with the theatre in any legitimate manner, but has been trespassing and harassing certain members in your employ."

Gérard could have spat fire and given the devil himself reason to hesitate. _Damn that Joseph Buquet!_ He knew it had to have been Buquet who gave the police an account of his near run-ins with Erik—the "Opera Ghost".

 _Damn it all!_ He had warned Erik to be careful, but his son had always kept a close eye on the drunken stagehand, citing it his civil duty to protect the delicate props from the man's ham-handed treatment. Gérard had known this excuse to be false—Erik had really been making sure that the lecherous brute didn't follow through with any of his boasts or threats against any of the the female employees. Gérard had been proud of Erik's concern, knowing that no lady caught unawares in a dark corner would ever be in danger.

He had tried to get Buquet fired on multiple occasions, but it had proven more difficult than he'd anticipated. Perhaps there was more to the stagehand than just an inability to show up on time and sober.

"Of course, Inspector," Gérard said smoothly, subtle concern in his voice. _Don't come on too thick—this Inspector is a bloodhound._ _I must warn Erik as soon as possible._ "I would be happy to cooperate fully."

Ledoux nodded curtly. "Very well. I shall begin with a search of the premises, if you'll permit. My officers are waiting downstairs."

 _How very organized…_ Gérard thought wearily. "Very good, Inspector. I shall be happy to guide you through the backstage. It can be very tricky to navigate, and we wouldn't want there to be any accidents."

Ledoux gazed at Gérard, and for a moment he seemed to be boring a hole into his very soul. Gérard didn't look away. "No," the inspector said, unblinking. "We wouldn't want that."

Choleti, oblivious to the exchanges happening under his nose gave a deeply melodramatic moan of despair.

"What am I going to tell Carlotta? You will be giving her the lead role in this new _phantom_ opera you're promising me, correct Gérard?"

Gérard resisted the urge to roll his eyes heavenward.

 _Oh Erik…_ he thought ruefully. _How I wish you were here to help your doddering old Papa…_

He could really use another drink.

* * *

 **TBC…next chapter is the unmasking...and Ledoux discovers something that could blow the lid off of everything! Will our characters come out unscathed? I'd love to know what you think, so please review!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

* * *

His numbed legs managed to carry him all the way down the hall, through his parlor and into his bedroom before they betrayed him. Closing the door, he leaned back against it heavily. Each step away from her had been agony, yet he had desperately needed to leave her presence before he had been unable to control the emotions at war within his heart, and she saw the full impact of her power over him. Before she had a chance to answer his untimely confession.

 _Marry me._

He had not intended to ask her so soon, in that manner. Not as a question, nor demand. A statement, a truth that if she rejected would surely strike him down more effectively than any blade or bullet. Perhaps that would be not such a horrible death—to die by the hand that sustains you.

He leaned his head back against the door. Lips parting, he mouthed _I love you, I love you…_ over and over until he felt he had enough strength to stand on his own again. He staggered slightly, as though he truly were intoxicated. His hand wandered to his mouth where he still felt the heat and sweet pressure where her lips had touched him.

 _She kissed me. She kissed me again and I did not awaken, it was not a dream!_

He doubted that anything could ever eclipse the memory of her standing in the dress he had designed for her, eyes bright, face glowing with happiness. And she was looking at _him_! She had been awaiting his return, cooked for him, turned his lonely seldom used kitchen into something so vital he didn't know how he'd ever be able to enter it again without her presence.

 _Home…_ the realization had shattered him, leaving him bereft of any pretenses that he could ever survive without her. _She is my home. Where ever her feet grace is where I belong. Oh, my Christine…forgive me, for now more than ever I cannot ever let you go._

His hand reached out, gripping the edge of his dressing table. A sea of masks of every colour, shape and expression stared blankly at him, and for the first time in his life none seemed to suit his current mood. None of them seemed _right._ Their painted faces seemed now a mockery of life, expressions frozen in a multitude of insincere smiles and austere, intimidating grimaces. How childish, how ridiculous they all were now that he felt for the first time in his life like he, _Erik_ , was wanted. The tiny glimmer of hope that she could possibly wish to have him, the embers that he had tended so obsessively since their first meeting were now a blazing inferno.

Everything was ashes, and yet never had his life felt so lush and green. He had always been so ridiculously organized—planning for the future had always seemed necessary. Prudent. He was meticulous in all things, even things that deep down he didn't believe would ever come to pass.

Never had he truly believed that there would be anyone in his future; in his darker moments of which there were many, he had frequently imagined Gérard disappearing from his life without a trace. It was inevitable, he had surmised.

It was his fate to be alone, in this dark place that no amount of candlelight could suffuse. Just he, shrouded in the shadows with his music. More often than not, the melodramatic gravity of his situation made him laugh and cry in equal turns.

But then—heaven help him—then, he had met _her_.

Hands shaking so badly he could barely untie the straps, he reached up and removed the mask from his face. Placing it on the dressing table to become one of the sea of others that continued to gaze impassively at him, he let out a relieved sigh. With her image conjured in his mind, freedom, vast and never ending stretched out before him, tantalizing and seductive. Without effort, she had unwittingly charmed him out of his most closely guarded, shameful belief—that though he had always longed to one day leave the theatre with Gérard, not as his burden but as his _son_ , to seek out the sunlight and live in the world above—at his very core he was a coward who preferred being alone. Forever hidden, forever masked; chained to his miserable fate by distorted flesh and bone.

 _For I am darkness itself, aren't I?_

His own words, spoken so long ago it seemed now and with such finality were a farce. His worship of solitude was a lie. He couldn't deny that now. Not with her kiss still burning upon his lips like a shining brand. She had breached the defenses he had so carefully crafted effortlessly, and now the dam had broken within his heart and all his wants and desires were pouring forth in an unstoppable torrent.

He wanted to see his father free of the burdens of city life, of a career that made him turn always to drink and never to the son who longed for his company and true confidences. The thought of having to resort to underhanded means to securing his father's continued presence in his life was repugnant to him. He wanted Gérard to love him as a son and not as a burden, to accept him without shame.

He wanted a wife so badly, his whole body ached with unbidden images and desires that flooded his mind; a small, cozy home with a wild rose garden. A dog and a cat, curled up at their feet by the hearth. He had always admired dogs with their wagging tails, and cats with their soft fur and effortless grace. Strolls in the park at sunset; picnics in the park, beneath the warm sunshine and a vast, endless blue sky above. The sounds of sweet laughter, images of little ones, _their_ precious ones, chasing each other and singing their beloved nursery rhymes…

The images of their little faces, shining with love as they gazed up at him shimmered unbidden on the tail end of his fevered imaginings. Like an oasis embedded in the cold void of his loneliness, those voices called to him. _Husband. Papa._

How he yearned to be worthy of such titles.

The mere shadow of that thought—of what it would mean to be gifted with such paradise, his lovely rose by his side, eyes shining, hair like spun-gold and so very soft…

It was a dream he had longed for since childhood. _Family._

He had lied to her. They didn't have time. Time was nothing but grains of sand that were slipping through his fingers the longer he was near her. He yearned for that life, he was burning for it. _I must…I need_ …his frantic gaze fell upon the only thing that could possibly help him express the wild urgency he was feeling. Breathing in the free air, finding it soothing against his bare face instead of unwelcome, he groped for the violin case tucked beneath the dressing table.

Without pause, he drew it from its crushed velvet pillow and embraced the instrument fully, his hands finding some stability again as he drew his bow across the strings, unburdening himself, pouring forth all his love, fear, madness and hope into a melody that flowed effortlessly from his soul.

* * *

Music, sudden and evocative reached Christine's ears and she felt her heart stir with delight. Erik was playing the violin. Curious and unable to resist, she left her spot by the window where she had been lost in thought and followed the irresistible sound like a leaf caught in the wind. It was unlike any melody she had ever heard for it followed no logical sequence, no predictable progression. It was pure emotion, raw and untempered.

Exquisite.

 _Erik..._

She was drawn to his music, to _him_ as naturally as water flows to the sea.

Her feet lead her to his closed door, wave upon wave of mesmerising sound washing over her with such power her hand was on doorknob and turning it before she had time to register what she was doing. The room was dimly lit by a few stuttering candles yet he seemed illuminated, standing in the center of the room. She first saw his broad back swaying as he cradled the violin like a living, breathing creature against him, then the side of his face—his _face._

The world stopped, and all that remained was her thundering heart and him. His eyes must be closed. It had only been a glimpse, a flash of something she barely had time to register as he unconsciously swayed toward her, completely unaware that she was in the room. Darkened flesh, waxy and startling— and then it was gone, his broad back all she saw once more.

Tearing her eyes from his tall figure, they fell upon the black mask he had been wearing earlier, now abandoned on the dressing table. _He wore no mask._ Slowly she reached for it, not knowing why but motivated by irresistible instinct. Realization that she had wandered unwittingly into a private moment spurred her, for she understood that for all his seemingly flippant acceptance of his past and its irrelevance, it was with them in this very room, prowling in wait, threatening to swallow them both.

 _His face child...I cannot describe to you the horror of his face._

Fear was a tangible being, and its hackles were raised threateningly. It suffused the air around them, which before had held only the beautiful sounds of his genius. _Genius..._ she thought, despite the rapid beat of her heart advising her of just how dangerous and steep a fall could be awaiting her.

 _I must warn you, my dear. He has a temper. He is, at his core, the kindest, and gentlest of men. But experience can be a cruel teacher. If you were to see him, to see his true face...I do not know what would happen. Living alone this long, in this isolation...it has been necessary, but it has also made him unpredictable. That is why you must leave. He may seem in control, but I'm afraid in many ways he is like a frightened, wounded animal. He would never hurt anyone purposefully, but he has suffered so much...you are the first person he has ever reached out to...if you were to recoil, or reject him...it could be his utter ruin..._

The air seemed heavy in her lungs. Even in the wake of Gérard's ominous warning, despite the goosebumps that tickled her skin, one truth wiped away all else.

 _He is so much more than a face._

Tentatively, with her heart fluttering wildly in her chest she took a determined step forward, the floorboards beneath her feet giving a soft creak.

The beast snarled, snapping its ravenous jaws; an off key note hit the air with a lingering squeal.

"Christine?" she had never heard him sound so breathless, or sharp. His shoulders rose and fell for a silent moment, his body which had been so relaxed and swept up his music not moments before was now still and rigid as stone. Unspoken tension began to fill the room like deadly, rising water.

"It's alright," she soothed, not knowing where the calmness in her voice was borne from. Slowly, as one would a wild animal, she approached his back. Wordlessly, and with a trembling hesitancy that made her eyes sting with sorrow for him, he shifted the violin into one of his large hands, reaching out with the other blindly in a silent plea.

 _Please don't make me turn around,_ his gesture seemed to implore.

Gently, she slipped the mask into his waiting hand.

As soon as his fingers grasped it, she heard him release a short breath. Withdrawing it from her hand he pressed it to his face. Wordlessly, he moved forward to place the violin back into its case again. His movements were drained of all their usual grace, and she saw his hands trembling as he straightened, tying the straps of the black mask securely around his head. A heavy silence sat between them like a vast chasm.

Christine was the first to breach it, but he was not far behind. "Forgive me, I had no right to intrude and I—"

"Please, my dear. You have nothing to apologize for. You had every right."

She floundered for a moment, warmth spreading through her numb limbs. He still did not face her, but his voice was steady if not devoid of its usual rich vibrancy. He sounded so desolate!

"It was for you, after all."

Her cheeks burned with a heat that seemed to wash over her from head to toe.

"Your music?" she asked softly, wanting nothing more than to close the distance between them and wrap her arms around his waist, burying her face into his broad back. The thought made her heart quicken.

"Yes," he replied after a moment. "You are my muse, in so many ways. Your beauty defies description in any other way. So kind, so patient. So much stronger and far braver than I—" his voice broke, and she did take a step toward him then, intent on stealing away his distress with the tender caresses she was burning to give.

"No, please," he breathed, hoarsely. His beautiful, dulcet voice sounded broken, and as much as she wanted to mend it she respected his request and stayed where she was. After a moment, he spoke again and his voice was stronger, but there was still a childlike vulnerability she had never heard before echoing in his deep tone.

"Would you help me, my dear? I can't seem to decide on what to wear for our outing. I haven't been on many adventures, I'm afraid. I wouldn't want to be caught under-dressed."

Christine closed her eyes for a moment, overwhelmed by such a feeling of love for him that she thought she might die right there, for how does one survive such a sweet sensation? She didn't know.

 _Yes, I will marry you._

"Of course, Maestro," she said softly. "I will help you."

He turned to her then, still not able to meet her eye but his body relaxing enough to alleviate some of the tension that lingered in the air around them. "Thank you," he said, his voice echoing with the same chivalrous courtesy that she had always found both endearing and maddening.

Now, it touched her beyond measure.

 _He feels manners and decorum are all he has to distinguish himself from the beast he believes himself to be…_ she realized with a rush of sadness.

Turning to his dressing table, she looked with interest over the sea of masks, hats and other odd and ends that covered every inch of its surface. It was a menagerie that would have made the costume master of the Garnier weep with joy and envy. Some articles lay on the table, some hung from hooks; others sat perched atop disembodied mannequin heads. Masks of every shape, colour and expression gazed at her, frozen in time. A silk top hat that she had seen him wear once before to a performance at the Opera reclined elegantly atop a disembodied, blank faced, wooden head. He had looked so very handsome that night—and she recalled how much she had secretly wished he would take her in his arms. That was before the cursed debut of Faust however, when he was ever her respectful guardian and Maestro. Always sensible, always in control. Her gaze fell across a hat unlike the others, a boat hat made of straw and sporting a bright blue ribbon.

Reaching out, she plucked the hat from atop a smartly crafted head, whose blank face bore a beautiful porcelain mask painted in blues and peaches. The hat's jaunty tilt had caught her eye, and made her smile.

 _Sensible yet spontaneous._

"This one would suit you well, Maestro," she said gently, stepping forward and placing a hand on his arm. The instant her fingers made contact with his sleeve, she felt him draw in a short breath. _Always so affected..._ she thought, feeling a rush of charged pleasure race beneath her skin. Her blood seemed to sing, drawing her closer to his side, until she felt the warm, taut muscle of his upper arm against her palm. As though in a trance, a reflexive reply to her nearness, he turned to look down at her, his grey eyes burning beneath the black mask's lifeless indifference.

Her eyes met his, and held them.

Gently, she reached up to place the boat hat on his head. He had to bend forward slightly to accommodate her, which he did without hesitation, his eyes still fixed on hers.

"There," she breathed, only now aware that they had unconsciously moved closer, so that the air between them was heavy with anticipation. Like the ebb and pull of the tide, touching him was inevitable. His grey gaze was deep and even, like a pearly sky promising rain. A certainty soaked into her very bones; she would be forever parched for his touch.

"Not too much of a dandy, you think?" he asked, a hint of humor in his voice though its deep, roughened edge betrayed him.

 _I love you._

Shaking her head, she let out a sigh she knew he understood, for his eyes flickered to her mouth.

"Does my mirror approve?" he murmured, bending closer to her upturned face, seeking reassurance.

 _Please do not fear me._

"She does," Christine whispered as his mouth found hers, knowing her words ran far deeper than mere appearances.

* * *

Gérard had to admit; Inspector Ledoux was extraordinarily thorough. In another lifetime, if he were not the keeper of so many precious secrets, he would have found it an admirable trait.

When you are trying to hide someone's very existence however, such efficiency is most inconvenient.

"How long have you been employed as company manager of the _Populaire_ , M. Carrière?"

Gérard smiled widely, and tried to look genuinely nonplussed by the question. He knew Ledoux was informally interrogating him while his men searched the theatre. Although to be fair, perhaps the man always sounded interrogatory when trying to initiate polite conversation. He noted the inspector's serious, grim expression and wondered if he ever laughed, or told awful jokes. Or gambled. Or drank whiskey.

A feeling of inexplicable deficiency made Gérard feel inferior to the inspector's obviously responsible nature. If only _he,_ himself had been a responsible man. Perhaps then his only son's life would not be hanging in the balance.

"Oh, about fifteen years or so," Gérard replied lightly, taking out his cigarette case and once again offering one to the inspector. Ledoux took one, with a nod of thanks.

"And in all that time, you were not concerned with the complaints of your staff regarding an intruder?" It was said softly, almost casually, yet there was no mistaking the steel flint beneath the tone. Gérard shrugged his shoulders, his expression carefully indifferent.

"The theatre is a many headed beast, Inspector. Most of these heads are filled with logic, hard-work and devotion to their art. They are also filled with superstition and gossip. It is the way of the arts, I'm afraid."

Ledoux said nothing for a moment, but took a long pull on his cigarette. "And what of Joseph Bouquet? As I understand, he was in your employment and seemed to take these…superstitions, as you say, very seriously. He even reported a few of these incidents to the gendarmes."

Gérard let out a determinedly sad, and not derisive sigh. "Ah, well. Poor Joseph. It is unfortunate and a shame, but the man's predilection for drink and a fanciful imagination are not an uncommon combination amongst stage-hands. I'm sure his sensational stories were quite entertaining, if not a waste of time."

"He was a liar, then?"

Gérard felt an unpleasant tingling sensation creep along the back of his neck.

"Was?" he repeated, gazing at the inspector with sincere confusion.

Ledoux's face was inscrutable. "Yes, w _as._ My men just drug him up out of the Sienne early this morning. Drowned, although the exact nature of his death is still in question."

 _Exact nature. Dead. Reported a few incidents of an intruder. A ghost. But what ghost can render a heavy, drunken man intent on bursting into the ballet dormitories on a lark, unconscious with one blow?_

Suddenly, the weight of every incident in which Erik had interfered with the unpleasant stage-hand came crashing down. Of course the Inspector was putting two and two together, and painting a very damning picture—a picture that clearly showed an unstable stalker, a trespasser, capable of…

Gérard needed to get to his office, _now._ If the Viscomte's generous offer of help was genuine, now was the time to find out. Ledoux was watching him carefully, and Gérard cursed himself inwardly for showing even the slightest hint of the fear that was raging inside his frantic mind.

"That is most unfortunate," Gérard said, a bit hoarsely, and meant it. "I am sorry he died in such a manner."

Ledoux nodded. "You doubt the veracity of his accusations, M. Carrière? Accusations that to my mind, might have contributed to his death?"

Gérard made to speak, but Ledoux continued before he could. "I'll admit to you that when my sergeant first brought M. Bouquet's allegations before me, I was dubious. Very dubious. I surmised M. Bouquet's character to be that of an opportunistic deviant. Then, he mentioned something that I found most intriguing."

Nothing but silence and smoke hung in the air between the two men for a moment.

"What would you know of an underground lake beneath the opera house, M. Carrière?"

Gérard felt his heart skid to a halt. "A lake?"

"Yes," Ledoux replied, pinching the end of his cigarette between two fingers to extinguish it.

"A lake, surrounding an underground stronghold. A relic of a bygone war, but still quite serviceable and according to Bouquet, still possibly harboring an extensive arsenal."

 _Gunpowder and ash._

"A possibly active arsenal."

… _these are only in case of invasion. I retain the means to trigger them and they are not going to be used unless absolutely necessary…_

Ledoux's eyes were hard pieces of flint.

"Quite sensational, would you not agree, M. Carrière?"

* * *

His hand was warm, and Christine savoured the sensation as it engulfed her own. She wondered if he was aware that he had forgotten his gloves. The thought made her blush quite inexplicably.

There were so many things that were changing, unraveling about this man she knew so well and not at all. After she had bestowed him with the boat hat and a kiss that quickly had become so heated they both had ended up knocking over several of his carefully painted masks (the result of which had reluctantly brought them back to their senses), he had been much more light-hearted and busied himself with procuring a buttercream waistcoat and a black silk cravat.

He had then proceeded to dress himself without the benefit of a mirror, which had impressed Christine greatly, chatting all the while about the musical composition he had composed for her, and how he would be honored to share it with her on their picnic. For what was a picnic without music? Indeed, he should pack his violin right away! And should he bring his flute as well?

It had been so intimate, watching him busy himself with buttoning up his waistcoat and tie his cravat with long, nimble fingers that managed the complicated looking task with effortless, practiced ease. She had not realized how much she missed watching a man dress—her father had owned very few neckties, but she had always enjoyed watching him shave his face and tie the scrap of cloth around his neck with such grace. She thought with a pang that had her mama been there too, she could have watched her braid her hair, or apply her perfume.

An image of herself sitting before Erik's dressing table, no mirror in sight, humming to herself while she braided her hair, a little girl in her lap, gazing up at her sleepily while she watched with dreamy fascination. A little girl who had clear, crystal grey eyes the colour of bright storm clouds, just like her papa.

His hand squeezed hers gently, and broke through the sweet fantasy that left an empty ache in her heart.

"May I look now?" she inquired curiously, one eyebrow arching above her hand as she held it tightly over her eyes. When he had asked her to cover them upon leaving his home, she had felt like a child again, playing a game of hide and seek. Yet there was no hiding, and she did not have to seek him. He was right by her side, large hand swallowing hers as he led her along, admonishing her gently when she attempted to peek.

Now, she heard his rumbling chuckle at her question—one she had been repeating consistently—and it made her smile despite her impatience.

 _He does love to play games..._

"Not yet; and no peeking," he answered sternly, though the amusement in his tone clearly indicated he knew all too well he was pushing her patience to the limit. He continued to guide her carefully, his grip on her hand firm. Every now and then he would instruct her to mind her step, and she felt his warm hand or arm sweep protectively around her waist.

Soon, she could smell something she did not expect.

"We are here," he said gently, his arm still resting around her waist. She felt him place his hand over hers, where she kept it cupped against her closed eyes. Christine's heart skipped excitedly.

She could smell leaves, and the unmistakable scent of earth. Where could they be? She did not think they had left the underground, but she could definitely smell the unmistakable scent of damp wood and thick moss. The ground beneath her feet was no longer the stone that paved the way to Erik's underground home, but soft and pliant. The air had changed too—it was not the cool breeze that swept off the lake and carried the hint of algae. It was fresh, and carried with it a sense of invigoration.

He drew her hand away from her eyes, and when she opened them, an astonished gasp slipped past her lips.

It was a forest—a living, breathing underground forest.

Trees of all shapes and sizes tangled together, vibrant greens turned a soft glowing blue in the muted, grey light pouring down from the top of the cave's immensely high ceiling. It must be overcast above ground, and the effect was mesmerizing. Grass tickled their feet, and as her astounded gaze continued to roam upwards, she saw black silhouettes of birds circling above the tops of the canopies, their flapping wings echoing against stone walls covered in green vines and foliage. Distantly, she thought she could hear the rush of running water.

It was unspeakably beautiful. She marveled at the abundance of so much life born from the darkness of a cave, where one always pictured nothing but empty shadows. It was like something plucked out of her dreams, when she had imagined secret forests in magical realms where fairies danced and dragons sang ancient songs. She must have been squeezing his hand tightly, for as her eyes desperately tried to soak it all in, she felt him laughing quietly beside her.

"Does it please you, little bird?" he murmured, his voice just above her ear.

Christine nodded vigorously, her smile infectious as he watched her carefully.

"Tell me what you're thinking," he said softly.

"Beautiful," she replied, trying to patch together words to describe what she was feeling. "Unexpected. Like magic."

"Yes," he said, his tone quiet and thoughtful. "I completely agree—just like magic."

He reached out a tentative finger to tuck a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. "It is yours to explore, my dear. I will follow wherever you go."

Immediately, and to his great amusement, she was tugging on his hand and calling for him to keep up, leading him down the grassy knoll that led towards a boarder of dense trees and moonlit shadows that danced beyond.

"How incredible!" she was murmuring aloud, eyes wide with awe. "But how? Maestro, how can all this exist under the ground? It's a miracle! Did you do this?"

His heart expanded at her easy confidence in his engineering prowess, and he linked her hand through his arm as he guided her through a thicket of silver-leafed trees that led deeper into the heart of the little forest. "I admit I've helped encourage it to grow as wild as possible, but no my dear, this forest has been here long before I was even born. Hundreds of years, I should think," he added dryly, grinning as she turned her shining eyes up to his. "Long ago, before Paris was even thought of, there were vast cities that have now turned wild and green, cold stone giving way to all kinds of life."

"But how did such a place transpire beneath the ground?" she asked, gripping his arm as they picked their way through the thick trees. Her Maestro, ever the consummate teacher, smiled at her inquisitiveness.

"It is impossible to know for certain, but there are several natural events that may account for it. Water levels rising and falling; the earth is forever shifting and changing. There are always deeper forces at work than what is glimpsed on the surface."

Christine smiled, thinking of how he himself was so much more than what the surface might present. Not for the first time, she wished she could look upon his own face, without a mask concealing it. To see his expressions unhindered, to kiss his cheeks and nose…

 _His skin had looked black, molded, almost like a mask itself..._

She had barely caught a glimpse of it, but the image burned within her mind. She needed to show him it was alright—that she wouldn't reject him. Their time together, in his realm felt almost like a dream within a dream, and she felt desperation beginning to wind its way through her heart. What would happen when she had to return to the world above? To her employment, her responsibilities? Would she even still _be_ employed? What if she didn't want to go back…?

 _Please, my dear. For Erik's sake, you must leave as soon as possible..._

"…although I must admit, I _am_ old enough to remember when some of these trees were mere wispy saplings."

Christine focused on his voice once more, his self-deprecating wit drawing her out of her numerous worries. "Are you telling me you are as ancient as you are unbearably charming?" she teased unable to resist. His laugh was delighted, and he patted her hand affectionately, inclining his head.

"Ancient maybe; as for charming, I believe that particular description could only be applied to me by you, my love."

 _Love._

The word, so innocently spoken resonated within her, causing her pulse to quicken and her head to spin with delight. Her surprised gaze rose to his face, but he was focused on the path ahead.

Then, coming to a stop he gestured at something just ahead of them and slightly above their heads. "Look," he whispered, leaning forward and pulling her unconsciously against his side.

She followed his line of sight, and saw to her amazement a cluster of brightly glowing specs fluttering about the small clearing that lay before them. The specs looked like a cloud of fallen stars, or true to her fairy tales and childhood dreams, fairy folk gathering to dance on the soft bluish beams of light afforded by an invisible moon.

"Fireflies!" she exclaimed joyfully. How long had it been since she had seen fireflies? Not since she and her father had camped in the woods of Sweden, when she had been a little girl. Sensing her excitement, her Maestro led her into the little clearing and began to unpack their picnic blanket and basket, watching her all the while as she chased the floating specs of light, nearly tripping in her enthusiasm, her movements hindered by her gown. She laughed, twirling around their chosen spot.

Reaching out, Christine managed to capture one little floating spec of light and she gazed at it in fascination. The little insect rested for a moment in her open palm, as though grateful for a moment's rest. Then, she saw its gossamer wings beat furiously, and it was off, rising out of her hand and above her head, joining its fellows as they ascended higher into the sky.

Turning her head to glance at her companion, she found him settled on the picnic blanket, a crystal glass filled with sparkling liquid in his hand. He was smiling at her, and his expression held such a gentle but unwavering intensity that it made her cheeks flush with heat.

How she wanted to rush to his side, tug him to his feet and dance with him right here, in this secret place! To forget the world above! She longed for his arms, his large hands to cup her cheeks as she sought his mouth over and over, breathing his name…

His gaze beckoned her.

Wordlessly, she walked back to him and gathered her skirts as genteelly as she could while taking her place on the blanket beside him. She took the crystal glass he offered with a polite thank you, and sipped it curiously. It was delicious and sweet, the bubbles almost tickling her mouth as she took a longer sip. She heard his quiet laugh, and turned to see him watching her with tender amusement in his gaze.

"I had hoped you would like it. I have been saving that bottle for some time now. I wished someday to share it. Champagne is always best when shared, I think."

Taking in a deep, long breath of the rich, fragrant air, Christine closed her eyes and took another long sip of her champagne. She remembered in one of their earliest conversations he had asked her if she had ever had champagne. They had been speaking of their favourite things. She had said no, but that she had always wished to try it. When he had asked her why, she said it was because her father had once described it to her, and before she had ever had the chance to taste it, she had already imagined what it would be like, and that it would be one of her favourite drinks. His eyes had softened at that, and she remembered thinking at the time how strange it was that he could be so officious and serious one moment, and so gentle the next.

Bringing the glass to her lips once more, she began to hum. The taste was sweet on her lips; a warmth was spreading throughout her limbs, and she hummed a melody that had no direction or form. It was like Erik's music had been, when he had played the violin with such passion. When she had inadvertently seen what he had never wished her to see.

It was music born of the beauty surrounding them; the promise of a kiss that was always ready upon her lips; of her hope that tonight, she would gaze upon his true face.

Her voice grew stronger, and soon she was vocalizing without words, allowing the depth of her feelings to guide her through a winding melody. She had never sung like this before, never sung with this amount of unreserved intimacy before another person. When she opened her eyes, her song slowly drifting and ebbing to a close, she saw his eyes were bright behind the black mask.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

"You are so indescribably lovely," he said after a moment, his voice rough with emotion, "you leave me bereft of any notion that I am master of my own fate. And I—" he paused, swallowing hard. "I cannot deceive you any longer. How can I? From the moment I saw you tonight in that gown, I knew… I knew…" he seemed to lose himself for a moment, and Christine placed her glass down on the ground beside her and leaned toward him.

"Please, don't…" she began, but he shook his head as his gaze roamed her face with sudden hunger.

"I must," he said fiercely, his hands now clenched as though preparing himself for a physical assault. "I can no longer be a coward. I have hidden the truth long enough, hidden behind the guileless, innocent mask of _Maestro_ when behind it I…" he brought a clenched fist to rest against his heart, as though he wanted nothing more than to rip the words from his chest. "Behind it I am no more than a beast."

Christine had risen and was kneeling in front of him within a heartbeat, her hands on either side of his face.

"Never say that," she said passionately, though he kept avoiding her eyes as though her gaze were too bright, too burning to meet. Suddenly, her hands were gliding down his neck, her fingertips resting against his rapid pulse.

"Erik," she said softly. At the use of his name, his head shot up and his eyes, pale in the dim light, met hers fully. Their depths were full of incredulity and shock, then unfathomable emotion.

"I love you," she said.

Just as he had turned to stone when he had almost revealed his true face to her, so now he became deathly still, as though not even breath occurred to him. His eyes had momentarily become blank, devoid of anything except an unyielding tension that seemed ready to snap at any moment.

"Ask me," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. Christine felt as though the world was gone, fallen away, and all that kept them anchored was this—this moment.

"Show me. Show me your face, Erik. Please," she said gently, noting how his whole body seemed to tremble when she said his name. Then, his gaze became bright and she realized he was reaching up to untie the straps of the black mask. They fell away, and he paused a moment, holding the mask to his face and drawing in a deep breath as though about to plunge into impossibly deep waters.

Then, he lowered it.

* * *

Death.

It was a nightmare; it _had_ to be. Erik, her Erik, her gentle, kind, passionate Erik was dead. The world swam before her eyes, his face sunken, blackened flesh distorted and twisted in decay.

 _Her papa's face had been sunken, just like this. His sightless eyes wouldn't close, not matter how many times she tried to gently slip them shut._

It was another nightmare, it had to be! A memory she wished would remain buried. An image she carried with her always. Her father, cold and lifeless. Not Erik, though. It couldn't be, he couldn't be…

 _No, no, no!_

She did not recall any sound escaping her, but it must have, for whereas before he had been so still, so convincingly _dead_ now he moved and she found her vision swimming with tears.

His eyes, his eyes…

They were beautiful. A pale bluish grey, and bright as he blinked rapidly. _Blinked. He's alive._ The suffocating feeling in her chest, the unbearable grief that clutched at her throat loosened. Not dead. _Alive._

Reaching out, blinded by tears, Christine found his chest and pressed her palm against it. The rapid beating of his heart was enough to make her give a gasp of relief mixed with utter panic.

Why couldn't she breathe?

Then the world tilted, and she was on the ground, staring up at a figure that swam hazily just above her head.

"Forgive me," she heard him saying, his voice hoarse and thick with tears. She tried to speak, but again, the air seemed to refuse to stay in her lungs, making her unable to speak, unable to move.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry…" he sounded terrified, grief-stricken.

She was screaming inside her own head. Calling to him, reaching for him. _I love you, I love you!_ But she couldn't move. Her ears buzzed, sweat beaded across her forehead, and she felt her stomach churn nauseatingly.

"I'm so sorry…"

"Erik…" But he must not have heard her, because he continued to whisper apologies, tears now falling fast down his blackened, twisted cheeks.

"My God, _Christine_ …" his voice was utterly undone. "Please forgive me. Please. Please…"

Darkness took her against her will, and she slipped beneath its heavy curtain without a sound.

* * *

 **AN: Hello again, and I apologize for not posting sooner!**

 **Thank you again to all who read, reviewed and to all who are just beginning this story now. I can't adequately express how appreciative I am! I truly hope you continue to enjoy, and although I'm trying to follow the plot-line of the series (with a lot of changes and license!) I do hope it remains different and enticing!**

 **Just a quick note: the underground forest is something I actually found online after doing some research, and found brilliant, beautiful pictures. If you're interested, look it up! It's incredible.**

 **Next up: How will we end up on the rooftop? Will Gérard's faith in the Viscomte prove false? What will Christine awaken to? Hope you will tune in for the next installment, and I wish you all a wonderful week!**

 **Also, a side-note: I do not have a beta, so as much as I try and make sure my grammar and spelling are accurate (also I'm Canadian so I apologize if the "colour" and "color" switching comes up too often!) I'm sure there are things that slip through...please don't hesitate to point these errors out to me, if you like! I appreciate all feedback greatly. :)**


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

* * *

It was precisely fifteen years ago that Antoine Ledoux's life was forever changed.

He had been a mere junior officer at the time, fresh from the military and eager to embark on a new career as a police officer; although perhaps eager was too strong a word. _Content._ As a capable man with a keen, organized mind he had accepted that he was probably fit for little else. And the work gave him satisfaction—when he was able to right an injustice, he felt closer to God.

Despite this contentment there were many aspects of his work that conflicted with his sense of ethical responsibility. Yet, he had somehow always managed to equalize his internal moral balance sheet so that in the end, he felt securely in the green. Even so he often found himself feeling frayed around the edges, as though there was a snag in his soul that was inch by inch unraveling.

His wife kept him patched together. Through her calm, serene grace he had found a blessing he never thought to ever have; not when nightmares of dust and blood, screams and billowing gun powder still haunted his sleep. Some days he found it difficult to focus due to the painful ringing in his ears he had acquired from too many close encounters as a young artilleryman. Sometimes the headaches were blinding, his vision doubled and blurry.

The only cure was darkness and music.

Strange, that music should soothe his pounding head when usually one sought silence to abate the agony. It had been his wife's idea to play their little upright piano while he lay in bed, trying to compartmentalize the pain. He disliked seeing his lovely wife worry for him. Yet when she played, the notes floating up through the floor and through his limbs, he felt as though there were no wars, no suffering in the world at all.

" _Man is responsible for many horrible sins,"_ his former Priest had intoned to his congregation when Ledoux was only a boy. " _Yet although man has the capacity to destroy, God has also given him the ability to renew the soul. Music renews us all. It heals us. Lifts us. Through music, God gives us wings."_

He had never been to an Opera before, but when his wife surprised him one evening with tickets to a new performance of _Romeo et Juliette_ at the recently renovated Palais Garnier his curiosity had been piqued.

He had felt quite awkward and inelegant in his rarely worn dress suit but the moment he had seen his wife in her soft peach evening gown, her dark hair crowned with silk flowers, he couldn't have cared less.

The night had been revelatory. Though they did not have the most sought after seats Ledoux had doubted the performance could have been more divine if they had been seated upon the stage itself. It had been miraculous. The new and much talked about chandelier was most impressive; like an ancient Titan's crown, immense and shining gold with thousands of crystal droplets and candle flame, suspended like stars above a sea of scarlet seats.

" _Oh, Antoine!"_ his wife had exclaimed, her head tilted upward to admire its majesty. _"It is just as they described; like a tear from heaven!"_

Indeed, he could see how stars might seem like tears. The smile that softened his usually serious expression was for his wife alone.

They sat, Ledoux reflexively scanning the crowd of people around them while listening to his wife speak softly about the article she had read in the local newspaper. Apparently the Garnier had very recently changed management, and was now under the direction of a little-known and much speculated-about business man. _"Carrière, I believe is his name,"_ she had explained, her eyes alight. _"They say he is an innovative genius. Even the critics have been raving that under his direction, the new Opera is unlike anything Paris has ever seen. The details have been kept quite secret; oh, isn't it exciting, Antoine?"_ Ledoux listened quietly, inwardly reflecting for not for the first time that no matter where they were everything paled when compared to her bright spirit.

In spite of her gloved hand clasped in his, he had still felt slightly on edge, senses alert as he did whenever he was in a large crowd of people. But the moment the immense, velvet curtains had lifted and the stage had been illuminated he had been captivated completely.

Though he had little experience of such things Ledoux imagined that very few plays, or Operas for that matter could compare to this. It felt _real._ Every detail from the beautifully crafted sets, ethereal lighting, to the costumes all flowed seamlessly together to create a perfect illusion of natural authenticity. He could clearly imagine the fragrant breezes rising off a crystalline river that wound through the timeworn city of Verona, with its ancient Roman ruins and opulent cathedrals. The weather-worn stone of Juliette's balcony embraced by grasping emerald vines. The moon, a shining pool of pure silvery light suspended above the stage, the only witness to the lovers oaths of eternity. The orchestra swelled and ebbed, carrying the voices of the performers mingled in a duet of passionate tempest to crash over him in a wave of pure sensation.

For the first time since childhood, Ledoux was unaware of the people around him. His mind had been wiped clean of all unseen, potential threats. He sat beside his wife, eyes wide, and was utterly entranced.

At some point during the performance, he had felt his wife squeeze his hand. She said nothing, bless her, yet he knew she had seen. His eyes had been wet by the finale. It was from that moment on that a scarred, war-weary policeman had fallen in love for the second time in his life.

And his love of opera had only grown.

If he was forced to choose however, he knew that the stormy, passionate _Romeo et Juliette_ was without doubt his favourite. It was something which amused his wife greatly.

" _My love!"_ she would exclaim fondly, whenever he surreptitiously suggested that they take in a little culture, which always meant an opera. _"Surely you have grown tired of that story by now? Besides, you have a most endearing habit of humming along which, though it melts my heart, does not recommend you to our fellow patrons."_

Ledoux had cleared his throat innocently. At least he had ceased with tears. Nearly. Allowing himself a little smile, Ledoux merely gave a shrug of his shoulders noncommittally, neither confirming nor denying this irredeemable faux pas. Then, on his way home from the station the next day, after his post-shift café, he would inevitably purchase a bouquet of roses and two tickets for the evening performance. His wife would kiss him, while twirling one of the velvety flowers across his whiskery cheek. Then, she would see the tickets tucked into his breast pocket and playfully tap his nose.

" _I knew you could not resist,"_ she would grin, teasingly. Ledoux indulged her, and answered with a kiss of his own, placed tenderly on her temple, just above her ear. Her perfume reminded him of lilacs, and their first strolls together beneath canopies of full, purple blooms...

"Inspector?"

The memory blurred, melting away like a chalk painting in the rain. His wife's smile, her perfume faded back into the deep well of recollections that so often called to him. The hour was late, his bones ached, and he was still seated at Gérard Carrière's office desk, searching for evidence. Piecing the whole picture together.

 _A stagehand. A trespasser. An underground lake, and an old, abandoned fort. A masked man, flying onto the stage like an avenging highwayman during a performance, to sweep the heroine off her feet and disappear; Romeo, imploring Juliette to flee with him into the night._

 _Marie, sitting resplendent beneath the dim lights of the stage in her peach gown._

Images clicked through his mind like spokes in a wheel. Gérard's hands had shaken almost imperceptibly when he lit his cigarette. His eyes, too tired. His smile, too wide.

 _He knew nothing of any trespasser, despite the rampant murmurings of his staff that the_ _Garnier was haunted. Strange sounds. Items disappearing. Sometimes, the most beautiful, haunting music._

 _Over-active imaginations and gossip._

It was all smoke-screens and misdirection; Carrière was lying, and he was an experienced liar. That much Ledoux had been certain of from the moment they met.

But how deep did his lies descend?

The familiar ache in his temples returned, and pausing briefly to rub his fingers against his temple, Ledoux looked up at his waiting sergeant. _So young. So much time..._ Ledoux reflected, wondering if he had ever looked that young himself.

 _War made you a tired, old man before your time._

He felt ancient. Exhausted, yet unable to rest. Like one of Hephaestus's metal men, empty inside but for the rusty gears pushing him relentlessly forward. His life now had been whittled away to the narrow line dividing right from wrong, justice from sin. He was a tool, and if his battered mind could do some good while he was forced to remain on earth then he was resigned to do his best.

It is what he had promised his wife, Marie, after all.

"Have you found it?" he asked the sergeant in the same detached, calm voice and emotionless expression his men frequently compared to that of a marble statue.

"We believe so, sir. It was right where the drunk—"

"M. Bouquet," Ledoux cut across the younger man quietly, but firmly.

"Yes, sir. It was where he said it was. We will have to break through the wall, for it looks as though it has been recently bricked up."

The young sergeant gazed at his superior expectantly, obviously keen to get his orders and get started. Ledoux felt something important flicker in the back of his brain. His headache was growing more intense by the minute, but he folded up his distress and tucked it into a corner of his mind. He had learned through years of experience that he could focus through the pain. Without his wife's music, without her smile and her tender kisses he'd had no choice.

"Bring in Carrière," he told his subordinate. "I want him to be with us when we break it down. If we're to go wandering down into hell, it seems only prudent we have a guide."

His sergeant looked baffled for a moment. "Hell, sir?"

"Oh yes," Ledoux sighed, thinking back to that night fifteen years ago when he had sat with his beautiful wife, beneath a heavenly crown of crystal tears, and watched two lovers give themselves to each other eternally through blissful melody. Was it so far-fetched to believe that the paradise created on the stage hid something deeper, something ominous beneath the surface?

His logical mind, which had served him well for so many years of tracking down those sins others would do anything to keep hidden, had run the calculations, weighed the options and reviewed the evidence.

All pointed to one certainty.

Carrière was protecting someone. Someone who was careful enough to have been able to live as a ghost for many years. Then, that someone made one fatal mistake.

 _Surely, you are tired of that story by now, my love?_

"And sergeant?"

The younger officer stopped, turning toward his superior. "Yes, Inspector?"

"Request the presence of Mlle. Daaè; Christine Daaè. I should like to question her as soon as possible."

The sergeant paused, a flicker of confusion in his eyes. Then he nodded curtly and left the room, leaving Ledoux for the moment in the dim light of the office, and silence.

* * *

It was his worst nightmare come to life; Erik, his _son_ , was gone.

Cradling his pounding forehead in a shaky hand, Gérard felt as though the iron knot in his chest was slowly, gradually constricting his lungs, as though he were a clockwork piece that was winding down, down…

 _Don't look at me with those eyes, Gérard. You have nothing to feel guilty about. You gave me all you could—all I was capable of. You were right; she cannot stay down here. Take her. Take her and go..._

Gérard swallowed mechanically against the rising wave of grief that stole into his heart. It was so intense, it briefly washed away the image of his son covered in shadow, his tall, broad figure bent with agony but still determined. Those shadows had seemed to swallow him whole. One moment he had been there, by Gérard's side, Christine unconscious in his arms—the next, he was gone.

He drew in a breath that did nothing to ease the ache in his chest; no, if anything every breath he took was another nail. He had failed. He had failed so utterly, he wondered how it was his heart kept on beating its steady, unaffected pace. He had tried to get back in—to seek Erik out once the Viscomte had taken Christine to his city dwelling, not far from the Opera. The entrance had been sealed. Gérard couldn't get back in, and he wondered if Erik would ever come back out again.

 _Take her. Go._

Never had the sound of his son's voice, so broken, as though every syllable was causing him physical pain, been more heartbreaking. He had been unmasked, his face streaked with tears, his eyes glassy and dazed as though he were seeing nothing but ghosts through a haze of foggy memory. As though he were finally a true ghost himself.

Gérard had been in a fit of agonized worry ever since. With effort, he raised his head to gaze at the still, sleeping form of Christine. Ever since he had discovered that the entrance to Erik's underground home had somehow been sealed completely, he had not left her side.

 _Oh Christine, my dear. Why didn't you listen to me?_

But he knew why. She had tried. She had tried to accept Erik's true face. His heart ached, for he could only speculate at what had gone wrong. There were so many things stacked against them, it was wonder their relationship had developed this far. He wanted to be angry with her. With them both. He wanted to drudge up some dark sentiment, if only to distract him from the pain he felt on both their behalves. But he couldn't—how could he blame them for falling in love?

Gérard regarded Christine studiously, as though trying to see inside her mind and scoop out what had transpired. The obvious answer was that the girl's feminine sensibilities were overwhelmed by Erik's deformities.

Codswallop, in his opinion.

He had known multiple women throughout his life, his own mother included, who could take the sight of gore and illness with more compassion and composure than some surgeons.

And his Belladova, bless her soul, had shown a fortitude of steel when faced with Erik's difficult birth, and even more horrible illnesses as a baby. Though he saw it as his duty as both a father and a concerned party to warn Christine away, he suspected now it had more to do with his _own_ inability to see past his son's distorted features.

After all, they were a constant reminder of what he had done. The fatal mistake that had cost him nearly everything.

 _Belladova, what should I do? Please, my love. Help me._

But he was not gifted with the memory of his one true love's smile, or her laugh. All he could see was a young, kind-hearted girl tucked into a giant, opulent bed that seemed to dwarf her by comparison.

It didn't make sense.

The way Christine had listened to him speak of Erik—she listened without judgement, or horror, or pity. Her face was full of something indescribable, something that Gérard wished with all his heart he hadn't wasted with his Belladova all those years ago.

 _Love. Compassion. Acceptance._

Was he truly that jaded and embittered that he couldn't recognize her feelings? Or was he simply too cowardly to admit he was terrified of seeing his son move on, be happy, and discover just how much of a failure his father was? Was it easier for the world to spin on if Erik stayed cloistered in the dark, a man buried beneath the ground in an unmarked grave before his life had even begun?

A sick, nauseated feeling roiled in Gérard's stomach, and his head gave an aggrieved throb. He knew in his heart that Erik's face did not matter to Christine. No, he suspected that something else must have triggered the breakdown in their bond; and they did share a particular, if not peculiar bond, of that much he was certain.

 _It scares me. I burn with a fire that is sin itself._

The memory of Erik's words sent a chill through his achy, creaking limbs.

He suspected that whatever occurred next, Erik had given the poor girl some of the potent sleeping draft he always stored. He knew Erik had come to rely on such measures, especially when his composing would keep him from sleep for days. The girl was in the kind of deep unconsciousness that only comes with having no resistance to such remedies. She lay on her side, facing him while he sat and kept guard over her. The Viscomte had graciously given them the use of his guest quarters, and Gérard could tell the young man wished he could do more. Was waiting to be filled in, so he could offer assistance.

Gérard wished he knew where to begin.

* * *

His arms were warm and his mouth was heaven.

 _Christine._

His voice wove around her like spell, a potent enchantment that made the world brighter, her passions deeper, every sensation a universe of swirling storms and scattered stars.

No more loneliness. No more doubt. Buoyant, her very soul felt like it was blooming once again after a long, frozen winter. Her papa's words floated back to her, and for the first time she allowed herself to truly believe.

 _Papa's angel. You will go on. You will become someone else's angel, I know this. There is someone in this world who will love you beyond all the gold in heaven. Promise your Papa. Promise me you will never doubt it..._

Her father's words echoed in her heart, and she found herself reaching out, calling back.

 _I found him, Papa. I found him..._

And then Erik's familiar, soulful gaze filled her vision but it didn't feel like she was seeing with her own eyes. Something deeper, some part of her could see without them.

 _Do you trust me, Christine?_

 _Yes!_ Her reply was instinctual, and with all the love she possessed she reached out to him again, drawing him close. She kissed him. His cheeks, his eyes, his mouth, his nose. His face was whole, and shining with love. She felt his long fingers stroke against her jaw, her cheek. He drew her chin toward him, and claimed her lips with a rising hunger that left her breathless. Her hands slipped about his neck, her fingers delving into his soft, coppery hair.

His heartbeat was hers, but it was suddenly slower, as though struggling against invisible vines, choking its beat. A memory stirred inside her mind, and she knew that something was very, very wrong.

 _What have I done?_

She received an answer; he spoke against her mouth, the pain in his voice a burning, charring rasp.

 _You betrayed me, my love._

Her heart froze. The world began to unravel, and when she saw his face hovering just above her own, it was blackened. Twisted. Decaying. And suddenly she was no longer in his arms, but watching him as though from behind a mirror; as though a barrier suddenly separated them.

He lay by the underground lakeside, his body covered in a bright sheen of sweat. He wore a mask, its features contorted into a piteous expression, black painted tears trailing down its smooth white cheeks. His chest rose and fell heavily, his breathing labored as spasms of great heaving coughs shook his once strong frame.

 _Christine._

His anguish was hers. His pain, his hopelessness.

 _Please, just let me die._

"It is alright child, calm yourself!"

A voice, familiar and close suddenly broke through the nightmare. She hadn't realized she'd been calling Erik's name, but she could hear herself now, crying out with desperation and panic. Her body felt heavy and clumsy, and her head spun dizzyingly.

"Easy, my dear," came that same soothing voice. So strong. So kind. Deep and even. The sort of voice that in its gentleness, could calm any manner of wild creature.

A voice so similar to his son's.

"Gérard?" the name sounded like a croak, grating against her dry throat. A concerned pair of bluish-grey eyes were watching her intently. They were so aching familiar, and brought a rush of despair so strong she couldn't contain the sob that escaped her. Blindly, she reached out toward the last tangible link she had to Erik; leaning forward, she buried her head into Gérard's chest.

Grasping his shirtfront, she tried to control the rising tears, but when she felt Gérard's hand stroke the back of her head, his arms around her, his voice so tender, she couldn't help it. She let herself cry.

"There there, my dear," Gérard comforted. He soothed her as best he could, gently stroking her hair and feeling his already aching heart break all the more to hear her quiet yet deep, devastated sobs.

"This is all my doing!" she managed hoarsely, her words muffled by his shirtfront. Gérard continued to stroke her hair, patting her back gently.

"No, my dear. This is not your fault, its mine. I should never have let you stay. I knew things were getting out of control. He tried, my dear. He tried so hard, yet I'm afraid he'll never be able to give you what you want. Not matter how much you care for each other, Erik is too...different," he swallowed heavily, his eyes stinging with tiredness and sorrow. He was surprised when he heard Christine's sobs abate. Staring at her in concern he felt her pull away from his embrace, face red and eyes flashing with emotion.

"You're right," she said firmly, all traces of fragility gone from her features. Gérard regarded her incredulously. "Erik _is_ different. He's unlike anyone I've ever met, and I wouldn't change one thing about him; not his gentleness, not his kindness. He would rather suffer in silence than be a burden to anyone. He has an insatiable desire to know about everything. He loves things that grow. He desperately wishes to be everything a fine, chivalrous gentleman should, but his nature is so impetuous, so passionate! His curiosity and tenacity grant him talent in anything he sets his mind to. His music is his soul! He's _everything_. Everything I..." she broke off, chest heaving, her face flushed.

Gérard, stunned by her impassioned speech said nothing for a moment. When he spoke at last it was with grave seriousness.

"I cannot express how grateful I am to you that you care for my son. That you see these qualities in him. But you must understand, Erik is unstable. He is not like other men, and it is my job to protect him!"

Christine's eyes shone, but she did not cry. Shaking her head, she placed both her hands on Gérard's chest, gripping his shirtfront gently.

"No, it isn't. You can't protect us. Don't you see? That is the tragedy at the heart of this—you think you can protect Erik, so you lie to him about who you really are. Erik wanted to protect me, so he hid his true self. And in the end, everything fell apart. If only everyone could speak the truth! This _was_ my fault. Erik trusted me, and I failed him because I should have—I should have told him about my father...I should have _known—!_ " she paused for a moment, taking a shaky breath. Gérard listened; it felt like the only thing he could offer her at the moment.

"My father was sick for a very long time. I looked after him as best I could, but we couldn't afford enough medication, or treatment. In the end, he was in agony. It was all I could do to keep him from harming himself. And then, he grew so weak. I watched him fade away, and when he died—" her voice broke, her chest drawing in uneven breaths. She was valiantly trying to control herself, and Gérard simply sat in silence as her grip tightened on his lapels.

"When he died, I was there. We...we had no one," she said shakily, reeling from the lance of pain that tore through her as she spoke the words she'd never shared with anyone.

"His breathing gradually became worse. He was struggling to speak. He begged me to help him. I couldn't. He died in my arms and I'll never forget his face."

Gérard closed his eyes.

Like a mechanical piece falling suddenly falling into place, everything about the past twenty-four hours seemed to illuminate with a resonant click. And he felt such sorrow for them both.

"I'm so sorry," he managed. Christine patted his chest softly, as though comforting _him._ Then, she let him go, her hands dropping back to her lap.

"It was _my_ cowardice that hurt Erik so. I knew he had deformities. It didn't matter. I wanted to see him, so badly I didn't realize my _own_ past would cause us both such suffering. I need to go back. I need to explain to him. I had the most horrible nightmare, Gérard. I dreamt he was sick."

Christine didn't relay the entirety of her vision. It was too horrible to recount. Erik, by the lakeside near his home, feverish and begging for death. Her throat closed tightly at the thought, her eyes burning with unshed tears. _No more tears._

Gérard watched her carefully. She was pale, almost ashen. Her eyes were red and swollen. She was unconsciously picking the edge of her sleeve, her hands shaking slightly in her lap. She looked so small, as though grief had withered her away to reveal a terrified little girl who had taken on too much responsibility, too much brutal reality far too early in life.

He had seen that same vulnerability in Erik countless times.

"He needs me," she said, very softly but with a simple finality that resounded like a roar.

 _I love her, Gérard._

"The tunnels are sealed," he said. "Erik sealed them. There is no way back in..."

Christine's face seemed to light from within, and a strength he had never witnessed in her before radiated from her like a beacon.

"I can find him," she said.

Gérard doubted, but only for a moment. Then one simple line of text floated up through his acute exhaustion, like a petal caught in a warm summer breeze, twirling along to land in the safe haven of his Belladova's rich auburn locks.

"Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind; and therefore, is winged cupid painted blind," he recited softly.

Christine nodded, and reached for his hand. Gérard took it, and the instant he enclosed her small fingers in his own he knew his battle was lost.

"Come then, fair Juliet," he said gently, a shadow and a hint of his old wry humor tinging his sad smile. "Let us figure out a way to save our brave Romeo, shall we?"

* * *

 **AN: Next up, Christine and Erik reunite, the Inspector discovers something he wasn't expecting, and the Viscomte proves himself...we are only a couple of chapters away from the build up that leads our characters to the roof of the opera house!**

 **Thank you all so much for reading, and for taking the time to review! I appreciate it beyond words, and your patience with my erratic posting. Again, I apologize if there are mistakes that slipped past my spelling/grammar filter! Exam finals are looming, and currently sucking most of my brain power...*twitch!*  
**

 **Thank you again for being so kind, supportive and encouraging! I hope you continue to enjoy :)**

 **As a side-note : The quote Gérard recites at the end of the chapter is from "A Midsummer Night's Dream", by William Shakespeare. It was one of my favourite Shakespearean plays when I was little...fairies and donkeys, comedic romantic misunderstandings and lots of sparkles? *Happy dance!* :) **


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

* * *

Gossip, when put to good use can be tremendously useful.

Philippe was very grateful this night that he inadvertently seemed to have eyes and ears throughout most of the city. When news trickled back to him via his valet, who was told by the cook who heard it from the stable master, who happened to overhear it from a few disgruntled stage hands in the café that night, it could not have come at a more fortuitous time.

Apparently, the stage hands who were in the employ of the Palais Garnier had been overheard speaking loudly to anyone who was sober enough to listen that the opera house was in state of uproarious calamity. With the Gendarmes crawling about every nook and cranny of the theatre, there was hardly a moment that passed without some kind of dramatic outburst.

The prop masters, directors and conductor were all in a tizzy because not only were they tripping over policeman every few feet, but they also were in the midst of preparations for the next scheduled performance of _Faust._

Despite the ruckus caused by the sudden invasion of the Gendarmes, Choleti, the owner of the opera house (or rather _partial_ owner as rumor had it) had been flapping about like a deranged hen, insisting that everything be ready on time. Cancelling was out of the question! Never had a performance sold out faster as the whole of Paris was buzzing with reports of ghosts and kidnap, murder and intrigue. Like flies to honey, everyone wanted to see if the infamous masked man would make a second encore appearance. Was he ghost or mortal? Some claimed they saw him fly like the devil himself down onto the stage, swooping in to kidnap the beautiful diva only to disappear in a swirl of black cloak. Had it been, as the Garnier claimed, merely a publicity stunt?

Whatever the case, the city was eager with anticipation to see if during this next performance dark Hades would make a repeat performance and reclaim his Persephone. How well people paid to satiate their salacious imaginations!

However it was not the discovery that Choleti was in a fury trying to locate the elusive Mademoiselle Daae, whom according to all accounts was still forbidden by the doctor to leave her bed and needed complete rest—at least, that was what Monsieur Carrière claimed—that worried Philippe. The fact that the over-taxed owner was desperate that Christine should sing once more the fated role of _Marguerite_ was of little consequence. What was imperative was the information that a certain Inspector of the Gendarmes was also seeking out the absentee diva, and that he had ordered his men to find her, sickbed or no, and bring her to him for questioning.

That information was most disturbing indeed and needed to be dealt with quickly, which was why Philippe now sat across from Christine and Gérard who were both sitting upon the bed together, one of Christine's hands firmly in the older man's grip. They looked united and determined. When Philippe told them what he knew, Gérard glanced at her meaningfully. Christine just smiled reassuringly back and squeezed his hand.

"Of course, I must meet with the Inspector," she said calmly. "I don't see as I have a choice. We mustn't arouse suspicion. I have been away from the Palais for far too long as it is. I'm sure monsieur Choleti hasn't minded the publicity, but I don't want there to be any chances the Gendarmes find Erik before I do."

Philippe, although relived at her newfound sense of calmness found his instincts prodding him with a truth he wasn't sure he was pleased with.

"You plan on going back to him, then?"

"Yes," she replied immediately, without hesitation. Philippe felt his misgivings wither. He had seen that look on her face before—years ago when she had convinced him that scaling the barn roof of a particularly grumpy farmer in order to lend authenticity to their role of dashing pirates was a splendid idea. _'Come on, ye scallywag!_ ' a young, muddy and tenacious Christine had goaded her much quieter companion. ' _We must commandeer this vessel and kidnap the fair princess!'_ When Philippe had shyly pointed out that Christine was fair, she had clutched her sides with peels of merry laughter. _'I am no princess! But I am the Captain, and I say if we kidnap her we shall ransom her for mountains of jewels and gold!'_

Though their foray into piracy had yielded more bruised limbs than riches, Philippe had always followed his Captain faithfully and with a certain sense of responsibility.

In those days, he was always the cautionary voice of reason. The one who played it safe, and never gambled on fickle turns of luck. How odd it felt to be cast back into that role once again.

"Christine," he began, "I am not certain that you would be helping your friend's cause by seeking him out at the moment. Ledoux is not a man to be trifled with. If he is asking to question you, I'm willing to bet that he more than suspects your Maestro's involvement in that stagehand—Bucket?"

"Bouquet," supplied Gérard and Christine in union.

"Pardon," Philippe continued undaunted. "Bouquet's death. You have to admit—living as a ghost for years, outside of society. Rumors of a vengeful spectre, inflicting who knows what kind of horrors if he is not pleased. It is suspicious to say the least."

"That is my doing," Gérard said firmly. "It was my decision to hide Erik from the world, and actively encourage rumors of a dangerous ghost. I thought it would keep him safe. Keep prying eyes away…he was only a child, after all. It was selfish and cowardly."

Christine tightened her grip on the older man's hand, but said nothing. Neither of them did. They knew better than to argue. Though Philippe instinctively liked Gérard, and found his past a tragedy worthy of the operas his son so loved, he could not bring himself to dispute the older man's claims.

A little boy, a child, locked away from the world and the company of his fellow human beings? Philippe had encountered such a phenomena before. Years ago, before Pierre had joined the officer's core, he remembered a doctor—a doctor of the psyche—had come to visit their parents. The doctor apparently was on something of a world tour, and his attraction was a young boy, not much younger than Philippe himself. The boy had been found wandering about the woods in Russia, and from what the doctor had explained in what Philippe had felt to be a very patronizing manner he had been _feral,_ meaning he did not speak or know the bounds of society and proper socialization. Wild, like a wolf. He had been abandoned, forced to fend for himself amongst deadly creatures and elements. Philippe had admiration for the boy, who dressed just like he did and followed the doctor obediently, although he did not speak a word.

When Philippe had offered him one of cook's famous macaroons, the boy had taken it but placed if carefully in his pocket instead of gorging himself. He was quiet and polite, yet his dark eyes held something that made Philippe terribly sad.

After their visit, that sadness had quickly flared into anger. How dare that _man_ (he refused to address him by the proper title of doctor) treat that boy like some kind of circus attraction? No wonder the boy did not wish to speak—what if he were shy? Or didn't like adults speaking about him as though he weren't even in the same room? Speaking of frightening things, like brain disorders and psychological illness, stunted growth and social impairments?

Pierre had been the one to calm him down.

"I agree," he had said in that quiet, gentle voice that always seemed to illuminate his younger brother's penchant for hot-tempered impatience. "I do not think the boy should be paraded about either. A young child like that should be with those his own age. He should be out playing, getting all sorts of bumps and bruises," at this, Pierre had eyed his younger brother meaningfully. Philippe instinctively gave his most innocent stare.

"Yet," Pierre had continued, not fooled for a moment, "I understand what Dr. Romanova was trying to achieve; tolerance. If he can prove to people that the boy is not dangerous, that he is capable of learning and eventually contributing to society, they will not be afraid."

"Afraid?" Phillipe had been incredulous. "Why would anyone be afraid of him? He's just a child! It's not his fault someone abandoned him in the woods!"

"No, it isn't. But that does not change the fact that most people are very afraid of what is different…"

Philippe had never forgotten.

"Philippe?" Christine drew him back out of the deep waters of memory, although hearing her voice so hoarse and her pale face made him long for the days when he could make her laugh as easily as draw breath. She was gazing at him seriously. He knew she suspected he was thinking about much more than Gérard's self-admonishments.

"Let me handle Ledoux," he said. "I cannot promise to keep him at bay forever, but I can at least bide you time enough to reach Erik."

Christine's smile was like the sun. It made Philippe believe that perhaps he c _ould_ still yet make her happy as he did when they were children. It made his throat constrict, and his eye sting slightly. All signs that he was in desperate need of a morning scotch, which amazed him. He had not touched a drop from any of his expensive Austrian crystal decanters since arriving home the night before with Christine and Gérard. The thought had not even entered his mind.

"Thank you," she said, heart in her eyes. He had not even noticed her approach. When her lips brushed against his cheek, he felt it grow hot. Oh, surely not. _He?_ Embarrassed by a woman's affections? Philippe cleared his throat, hoping against hope that he would not disappoint her. No, his precious decanters would have to remain lonely for the time being. He needed to be sober and sharp if he was to distract the dogged inspector.

"I suppose you both have a plan to find Erik, then?" he asked.

Christine exchanged a look with Gérard, whose expression was both determined but worried.

"I'm not going to particularly like this plan, am I?" Philippe asked warily. "On second thought, don't tell me. It is probably best. After all, what is a good plan if it is not fraught with peril?"

"And little chance of success," Gérard added, gloomily.

"I call that provoking fate," Philippe said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Without his morning dose of liquid cure, he could feel a headache begin to rattle his skull.

Gérard nodded ruefully.

Christine gazed between the two men incredulously, her strength seeming to return just as the others seemed to wither. "I call that adventure, messieurs!" she said with such bolstering conviction that both men regarded her with wide-eyed surprise.

" _We_ shall take fate into our own hands," she declared, passionately. In spite of himself, Philippe grinned. _Aye, aye my captain. Only this time, you will be saving the Prince and I will be using my silver tongue to do some good for a change._

Suddenly caught by the absurdity of it all he chuckled, realizing what a rag-tag rescue team they truly made. The deceptively petite soprano; the timeworn, repentant patriarch and the cavalier, degenerate aristocrat. No booze. No self-indulgent excuses. Just glory and the promise of redemption. He could just imagine Pierre's knowing smile. _Oh, how the mighty have fallen._

* * *

Erik heard music.

Faint, muted and distant it floated nearer like a lifeline and some part of his consciousness grasped for it instinctively. His breathing was laboured, the sickening pressure that weighed on his chest nearly unbearable. Yet despite the music coursing through his veins, a never-ending harmony that had always filled his head, nourishing and sustaining, he felt the will to drag air into his reluctant lungs slowly burn away. _Nothing but_ _ash._ He did not want to exist. Darkness was slowly etching its way across his vision, pulling him ever downward and for the first time in his life there was not one reason for him to deny it.

Not for his father. Not for his music. Not for the many tiny creatures that shared his underground home; bats, mice, rats and abandoned cats. Unwanted vermin. He had cared for them all tentatively when they were starving, or injured. It had given him a feeling of responsibility, of being _needed._ A few had even stayed with him for a time, and he had cherished the companionship while it lasted.

Inevitably, they would disappear back into the harsh wildness and he could never bring himself to cage them, just to keep them by his side. A rush of renewed grief and shame overtook his weakened body, and he shook uncontrollably. For one frantic, blindingly selfish moment he had considered _caging_ _her._

When she had fainted at the ungodly sight of his face, he had counted it as a blessing. He couldn't have stood to see her terrified expression for a second longer. Tears had stung his cheeks which were rubbed raw from wearing his mask for too many hours, yet he did not feel it. Mechanically, he had scooped her up into his arms as one would a wounded bird, delicate and breakable. He would fix her. He must. The journey back to his home had been too short. He needed her in his arms yet he also needed to protect her, to keep that blissful expression of peace on her precious features. Without thought, he acquired the distilled sleeping draft he had become so adept at making out of necessity. To numb his nightmares. How ironic that now he used it to keep _himself_ , the nightmare of his beloved, at bay.

Three drops against her lips, and she had slipped ever deeper into sleep, into a world where hopefully, if God was merciful, the image of himself could not haunt her.

 _Oh, Christine._

Unable to deny the need any longer he then enfolded her unconscious body into his shaking arms. In his weakness he had buried his horrid face into her neck, breathing her in, pressing kisses to her serene features. His lips mapped out a forbidden path against her warm temple, smooth cheeks, gentle mouth, delicate hands and soft hair. Part of himself raged that he dare taint her further. But he was desperate. Mad with the thought of what he was about to do _._ Frenziedly he envisioned keeping her, caging her as one would a lovely songbird; then he could tend to her every need, her every breath the reason for taking his next.

 _I burn with a fire that is sin itself_

Too much. He had wanted too much, greedy with the thought that in spite of his monstrous appearance she would stay. And for what? To live beneath the ground, trapped forever with a corpse who was too afraid to live above it? He never should have revealed himself to her. _Everything I love. Everything I touch I destroy._ Memories arose within the depths of his mind accusingly; a rose, perfect and sweet crushed within his fist; his mother, always in pain and ill because of _his_ difficult birth; his father's tired, sad eyes. All sacrificing because of him, so that _he_ should live.

And then she had come, and he realized he hadn't been truly alive at all.

The memory of Christine, face shining upon the empty stage in an expression of sublime exhilaration still burned within him, consuming all that was left of what he was. The night he had first heard her sing to an empty auditorium. At least, she had believed it to be empty.

He had been in the midst of writing a rather tricky bit of libretto. An argument between two lovers who by the most amusing circumstances, each thought the other to be unfaithful. Such a fine line, he was discovering, to make the audience laugh, cry and sigh all at once. Music had always been his first and foremost language. The means by which he revealed his inner most thoughts. Lyrically however he found it difficult at times to craft the right words to accompany his operatic compositions. Perhaps it was because other than Gérard, he conversed with no one but himself and the creatures that roamed his dark, damp realm and while excellent listeners, they could not speak back to him. This did not help his cause. Then again perhaps his lack of focus was because he had been overly distracted of late, a condition he was most unused to.

But it couldn't be helped. The new arrival with her guileless, shy smiles and quiet fortitude was quickly taking over his every thought. It was causing business as usual no end of trouble.

Sighing ruefully, he had dipped his pen in the inkwell, trying _not_ to dwell on the fact that he had not yet checked upon his charming distraction yet tonight. He always made a point to visit her, unseen behind the clever trick-mirror that allowed him to view her secret little apartment beneath the stage, just to make sure she was alright. That she had survived another day with the vultures and baying hyenas. He respected her privacy of course. He only visited when he was sure she was asleep.

It was a courtesy he would extend to any wayward, lost soul all on their own. Yes, it was all perfectly logical.

Dragging his mind back to the task at hand, he had been just about to write the words of his heroine to her lover—furiously scathing, with the wrath of a voraciously vengeful Valkyrie—when he heard it. At first, her voice had trickled down like a revelation from heaven, and he thought for a heart-stopping moment that his own torturous mind had created the unearthly sound. But no. Impossible. Nothing within his own twisted, nettled brain could have ever crafted something so pure, so effortlessly… joyful. It was not simply a fine voice, a petty voice. It was clarity, it was nature, time and the stars themselves resplendent, calling for him to act.

Enthralled, he set his ink pen down and stood from his work table, barely conscious of what he was doing.

 _When angels sing, the devils leave._

As though in a dream, he had followed the divine sound to its source. Mingling with the shadows he had seen a girl moving about the empty stage, frock frayed and shabby, fair hair disheveled, shoes nearly worn to the soles. It was her; the poor little foreign church mouse. Someone that no one, especially in this gilded place where the upper echelons strutted about like vapid peacocks, would notice beyond a scornful glance. _Of course. Of course it was her._ Never had Erik seen anything more beautiful, more achingly exquisite in all his life. Her beauty, completely unintentional in its lack of artifice, was addicting. Spellbound, he watched her sing to an imaginary audience; a siren, a goddess to be worshiped. Some deep part of his soul had needed to protect her when he first saw her climbing the steps of the Garnier, eyes full of dreams and ghosts, memories and hope. He had been captivated then.

Now, upon hearing her soul so freely given through her voice it was an agony like he had never felt before. Whatever he had been before that moment shattered, and in its place was something that was forever patched together and mingled with her every essence, every heartbeat.

Dare he speak? Her voice had a fairly intoxicating effect, and before he knew what he was doing he had moved closer to her, _too c_ lose. He could say nothing to her that night, too overwhelmed was he by emotions barely understood as they crashed down upon him, merciless in their torrential intensity. From that moment his fever only grew until one night he had been unable to help himself.

She had been in the auditorium again, this time back to the role of subservient slave. Gathering all the costumes from the day's rehearsals, she tiredly moved her way amongst the departing peacocks, all of whom ruffled their feathers importantly as they went. Buffoons. Erik had long since wished to resign from the human race after beholding such ignorant stupidity on such a regular basis.

But s _he._ She was elegance and grace incarnate.

She smiled genuinely at them all, eyes lighting up when she mistook one dancer for having said goodnight to her, and not the stagehand behind her. Far from looking embarrassed, or even angry at her faux pas, this girl had simply gone back to her work, he the only witness to her expression.

Sadness. Resignation. _Loneliness._

It had been this, something he could relate to so deeply that spurred him to speak once the stage lights had gone out, insipid voices faded away, doors banging shut and they were alone at last. His throat had felt like sandpaper. Palms sweating, he straightened his cravat and for the first time in his life wished for a mirror to check his appearance (such as it was, how ridiculous a notion!). Desperately, he recounted the speech he had been secretly rehearsing, editing, chucking into the fire then re-writing all week. _How do you do? Forgive my intrusion upon your solitude, but I find myself at the mercy of your charms and would beg you indulge me with your name._

His knees fairly trembled as he approached the stage where she was raised above him, an angel on a pedestal. He watched her for a breathless moment go about her work, entranced by her loveliness. Even alone, she still maintained an aura of quiet happiness that fascinated him utterly. He could tell she was weary; being at the beck and call of the demanding costume master was a test of both strength of will and endurance. His angel however tackled the job most admirably, and with a stalwart manner that left him with little doubt that she had known hard work in her young life.

Yet her resilience, her generous smile and kind words to any who spoke to or asked of her—it was commendable. He watched her straighten as she loaded up her rickety prop cart with discarded brightly coloured costumes, their rich brocade and sparkling bead-studded trims a complete contrast to her drab, brown patched dress. But she was moon-bright. She stretched her back, a slender hand reaching up to push a few frizzy strands of golden hair from her sweaty forehead.

 _Heaven!_ He had thought, mesmerized.

And then suddenly she had sensed something, some unknown chill no doubt racing down her spine, and had whirled about to look directly at him. For a breathless moment, the earth forgot to turn. Her unyielding gaze both flummoxed and propelled him forward until he was hurtling toward inevitable disaster as he opened dry lips, prepared speech completely forgotten, speaking the first words that leapt desperately to mind.

" _Please do not be afraid. I'm a friend...as well as an admirer."_

Oh, he would lament the way his voice had trembled as he admitted his transgression; _admirer._

Such a pitiful lie.

 _Obsession_ would have been more accurate! But she need not know that she had a devoted protector within these gilded walls. Or rather _under_ them, as the case may be.

" _A friend_?" her sweet voice had cut through his fever, a douse of cold water. When had she approached the very edge of the stage? When had she gotten so close? Panicked, he had warned her to not come any closer. " _Why_?" she had asked, kindness and concern washing over him as her angelic voice both soothed and set him aflame. " _Are you hurt? Do you need help, monsieur_?"

 _Help indeed._ Possibly he _was_ dying the way his heart raced and sweat coated his forehead, stinging against the raw skin beneath his mask. _I am the monster in the dark, and she worries if I am hurt!_ Somehow, despite his state, he had managed to reflexively respond with a wry retort though it was delivered in a husky, slightly hoarse voice that belied his fervent condition.

" _Evidently, Mademoiselle."_

She had blushed furiously, seeming to understand his inelegant suggestion yet instead of looking offended, a small smile had shaped her soft mouth. Innocently playful. Erik felt decidedly faint as he recklessly imagined just how far that charming shade of pink traveled down her long, slender neck.

He wanted her. Every inch, within and out.

It was all clear to him now. From the moment he first glimpsed her on the steps of the Garnier, thoroughly out of place and a single carpet bag to her name held securely in her arms. Now, he had never been surer of anything in his life. She w _as_ music. Her every movement, word and expression. So vibrant, beautiful and guileless! Why deny it? He had never stood a chance.

And how long after that fateful first meeting, where to his humiliation he had rambled on like a pedantic loon about the merits of her voice—although sublime, it did harbour _many_ technical faults and how she would supremely benefit from a strict regime of proper vocal lessons from a complete stranger who couldn't seem to regard her without wanting to fall to his knees and weep like a deranged madman— had he watched her with the fascination of a man starved for any scrap he could scrounge?

The role of Maestro and mentor had been at once the most fulfilling and agonizing undertaking he had ever attempted. He wanted. He loved. He yearned with all his being.

The memories began to fade, yet he still managed to think of her. He was always thinking of her, despite the swirling voices that hissed and threatened.

 _Your temper. Your face. She has seen it all, now. How dare you think you are worthy to even beg a scrap from her table?_

 _Demon._

 _Monster._

 _Murderer._

His selfishness had to end; he would end it. There would be no more sacrifices for his sake. With his last shards of icy sanity he had managed to send a message to Gérard, and hand her over to his father. For safekeeping. To keep her safe from himself. Numb, he had watched from the shadows as the only two people who had ever shown him affection and love ascended to the world above. Out from the depths of hell; a hell of his own making.

 _It was done._

An almost peaceful calm had surrounded him as he tore apart his home. The violence of his rage had been displaced, as though whatever part of himself that had cherished such things was gone. Vanished, like the ghost he had always claimed to be. All that remained was a physical body fueled by pure, utter pain.

He couldn't recall amidst the destruction and anguish how he had become soaked through to the skin, nor how he had succumbed to the devastating illness that now wracked his body. He had no more body. No more face. His mind, his memories were mixing confusingly together, slowly evaporating, draining away until he couldn't even conjure up an image of his beautiful, sad mother. She had been gentle, like his beloved. And he had loved her with a reverent devotion that had defied reason. He hadn't been able to save her. It had been his fault she became ill. Bearing him, caring for him had demanded all of her limited health. He had never forgiven himself; that she, so kind and good should be gone and _he_ should survive.

 _I killed her._

His mind, his very bones were slowly sinking into the earth.

All he could hear now was faint music; all he could see was the woman he adored _._ Mercifully, he still remembered every detail of her face _._

 _You could be an angel._

She had the barest of freckles, endearingly scattered across her cheeks. Her expressive mouth never ceased to fascinate him. The tiny flecks of gold, laced within the emerald of her eyes. She was ripest summer, forests of deepest green. Warm, cleansing rain. Moonlight beat beneath her pale, smooth skin. Her ankles were delicate, her bones so finely crafted yet hiding a spirit of such incomparable strength. Her nose tilted slightly upward, giving her the appearance of pure unearthliness, a nymph-like fairy caught in a mortal world of harsh, biting things. An angel whose voice had beckoned him forth from beneath the ground, biding him to answer, to rise, to _live._

 _Christine._

He had destroyed the entrance to his home after he had made sure she and Gérard were safely above ground. Not to keep them out, but to keep himself _in._

 _It frightens me; what I would do for her._

For the first time in his life, the music was beginning to fade completely, leaving him with all that remained of what he was; a twisted carcass and a broken will. There was no music, he knew. He had always known. It had only ever been within his own fractured mind.

This was his reality. Here, beneath the ground where the winds rushed and ebbed, the dankness creaked and dripped and ghostly echoes stirred nightmares and half-imagined terrors. Only he had ever heard the music within this desolate place, a constant beat and melody that had been imprinted within his consciousness from his earliest memories.

All was bleeding away.

 _Christine._

His heartbeat began to slow, each one now an effort as he felt himself give in and let go of that final hope.

 _Do not hate me._

For a moment, he thought he could hear his angel's voice, her downy wings gracing him with the gentlest of brushes against his blackened cheek.

 _I love you._

One last request.

 _Come back to me._

A cough; sharp blinding pain, the air too heavy for him to take in, and then he felt and saw no more.

* * *

How she managed to wrangle Erik from the lakeside to his bed Christine did not have time to contemplate. When she had told Gérard of her plan to break into Erik's home, the older man had thankfully not gaped at her (for _too_ long at least) as though she had completely lost her mind, and they had been able to make up for lost time.

In a way she supposed she had lost her mind, but it had been a comfort that Gérard had finally accepted that she was not going to be deterred—his only stipulation being that he accompany her as far as he could. Their plan was, as Philippe had suspected, perilous and not ideal by any means. It involved an old sewer tunnel, its entrance condemned and blocked off by a grid of high iron bars. It was dangerous, and had suffered a recent cave-in that prompted the city into talks of its removal. Thankfully, those talks were taking longer than anticipated, and it was still there just a block south from the Palais. Although the bars were daunting, with the right tools and a certain amount of elbow grease one could remove at least one, creating a space wide enough for someone small to squeeze through.

After that, one could reach the winding, dark caves that led deeper and deeper into the underground realm below, where a secret forest flourished. Where her Maestro had patiently, expertly explained to her how the earth shifts, slopes and somehow, against gravity and logic, connects to the world above.

It had taken what seemed to Christine like ages as she had navigated the wild, uncut rocky tunnels that led (she hoped) down to the little grove of silver and emerald trees. From there, she had navigated her way back to Erik's home based upon Gérard's expertise. When she had spotted light ahead, her heart had soared beyond her body, out into that sacred space that he had so shyly, so reverently shared with her.

Her clothes had become soaked, trousers torn in places and her hands and face bore a few gashes, knees raw from missing her footing on rock and stone, but she had made it. Nothing could have kept her away, not even her Maestro himself, with his most severe, stern countenance.

 _Once more my dear, from the G sharp. Head up, spine supple. We will work on this progression until you can defy gravity itself!_

Now, as she helped him stumble into his bed it was hard to believe he had ever been so undeniably powerful. His entire body shook with exhaustion. In the amount of time she had been gone to when she had discovered him slipping in and out of consciousness, delirious by the lakeside, he seemed to be withering away. Horrible, wet coughs continuously racked his frame and she had only ever known such numbing terror once before when she saw his hand drop uselessly from his mouth to his side, a red stain marring his pale, ashen skin.

Blood.

From that moment on a kind of calm, automatic response guided her. Having nursed her father she had experience maneuvering a fully grown man; yet Erik, even in his weakened state seemed like a mountain when compared to the shorter, slender man her father had once been. So what she lacked in brute strength she made up for by coaxing, encouraging and imploring Erik to follow her.

"Please, my love. You must help me. I need to get you inside, to bed. Help me, please?" she had bid, over and over. Each time she did, he seemed to rouse a strength that was astonishing considering his wretched state, and unsteadily follow her a few steps more. She knew he was unaware of what he was doing, that though he was semi-upright and moving he was not consciously awake. He could barely speak, his lungs rattling and she nearly came undone when at one point he had gazed down at her as she helped support his broad frame, his eyes wide as though for a brief moment, he could see that she was truly there.

"You're shivering," he observed, his voice unrecognizably rasping and rough. For a mad moment, he straightened and began to unsteadily tug at his shirt front, as though groping for buttons and clasps that were not there. As though confused by the fact that he had no coat or cloak to offer her.

"Yes, my love, it's very chilly out tonight. That's why we must get inside," she had barely managed, throat tight as she gently grasped his trembling hands in her own and took another step toward his home. They were close. If she could just keep him moving!

Erik swayed on the spot for a moment, his twisted, distorted features drawn down in a serious expression of understanding. "Of course," he rasped, and her heart nearly broke. "We must get you out of the cold."

He had said no more, but grasped her tightly as with renewed energy they made their winding way back to his home. Christine, resolutely ignoring the fact that the front door had obviously been wrenched from its hinges, managed to guide him across the threshold and to his bedchamber just before Erik's strength seemed to drain away completely. They had tumbled together, losing balance and tipping over onto the mattress. Another series of devastating coughs had shaken his body and Christine's heart. Quickly, with the mechanical and efficient gentleness of the nurse she had once been, she began to divest him of his sweat-soaked clothing.

 _He needs to be warm and dry_ she thought methodically, mentally prioritizing tasks as she peeled him out of his linen shirt. His skin was startlingly pale and sweaty, such a contrast to the blackened flesh of his upper face. For a brief, swift moment Christine paused in her ministrations to gaze down at him.

Unflinching, she forced herself to take in his misshapen cheeks with the clinical compassion of what she was in that moment—a nurse—and realized that although dark his skin was not black as she first glimpsed but a deep shade of red and purple, like dark red wine. His features in repose were nearly unrecognizable as a face; his nose was caved in on itself, cheeks all but two lop-sided bumps of too-prominent bone, forehead oddly shaped like half-molded clay. He had no eye lashes, nor eyebrows. The entire upper half of his face truly did look as though he were the dead given life. Only his mouth and chin, so beautifully formed survived intact although now they looked drawn, as though he had aged a century. That, she found, more than his deformities terrified her with worry.

The contradiction of his face both cursed and human so startling at first, began to blend together. Instead of the panic that had overruled her to such a horrible degree before, now Christine found she was entranced; he was whole. She could see every emotion, every expression upon his bare face.

Nothing in heaven or upon the earth could have stopped her from reaching out to gently stroke his twisted cheek. It felt surprisingly smooth to the touch for no hair could grow there. Nothing could have kept her from bending over his chest, which rose and fell rapidly with the effort of breathing, to tenderly kiss his damp forehead.

When she drew back, her breath caught. His eyes were open and the darkness of his flesh, the sunken sockets made them the most vivid, penetrating blue. She fell into them without hesitation like an open sky; the deepest stormy ocean. Vast. Endless. Those eyes, so intensely consuming within that face, _his_ face. It was like nothing she ever could have imagined.

He was beauty and ruin.

Suddenly her hands were engulfed by his larger ones. They shook slightly, yet she knew without question what he wanted and drew her palms to rest against his bare chest. A soft sigh escaped him, heartbeat pounding erratically, yet as they held each others gaze, it slowed. Calmed.

"Erik," she murmured, softly. Soothingly. He couldn't reply. His breaths though slower still rattled within his chest as though he could not draw enough air into his lungs. She saw his fear. She felt his anguish, his possessive love. And just as he had not so long ago, she parted her dry lips and began to sing to him, gently.

He watched her, eyelids slipping half-shut now and then slowly, as though she were the only thing in the world.

As though she were the only thing keeping him alive.

* * *

 **Thank you for reading, I hope that chapter was worth the wait! As always, reviews and suggestions are treasured and appreciated!**

 **I'm hoping to get the chapter 8 out ASAP, because I am excited to see this morph into what I imagined from the very first chapter. This is very AU, so I hope even though it is not faithful to the plot of the mini-series, it is still enjoyable!  
**

 **And Philippe trying to out-maneuver Ledoux is going to be fun to write, as well as the disastrous performance Choleti is so determined to have! I hope you continue to enjoy and I wish everyone a wonderful weekend :)**

 **As a side-note, the sewers that Christine had to traverse to reach Erik I found inspiration from by typing "sewer tunnels" into Google images. Spooky, yet strangely exciting to think of being down there!**

 **A huge thank you to everyone who has reviewed this far, I appreciate your time and encouragement :) !**


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